She quivered at his coming near her; he saw it, and felt a thrill of
pleasure himself.
"How is 'S. T.'?" said she, kindly.
"'S. T.'?" said he, forgetting.
"Why, your sick friend, to be sure."
"Oh, not half so bad as he thought. I was a fool to lose an hour of you
for _him._ He was hipped; had lost all his money at _rouge et noir._ So I
lent him fifty pounds, and that did him more good than the doctor. You
forgive me?"
"Forgive you? I approve. Are you going back to him?" said she, demurely.
"No, thank you, I have made sacrifices enough."
And so indeed he had, having got cleaned out of three hundred pounds
through preferring gambling to beauty.
"Singers good?" he inquired.
"Wretched, all but one; and she is divine."
"Indeed. Who is she?"
"I don't know. A gentleman in black came out--"
"Mephistopheles?"
"No--how dare you?--and said a singer that had retired would perform the
part of 'Siebel, to oblige; and she has obliged me for one. She is, oh,
so superior to the others! Such a heavenly contralto; and her upper
notes, honey dropping from the comb. And then she is so modest, so
dignified, _and_ so beautiful.
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