Love in an Opera Box

HEN you would not mind—" she flushed as she spoke, and fingered the sticks of her ivory fan nervously—"you would not mind if you knew that I had once worked for my living? I am glad the rest have left us. I wanted to speak to you alone."

"Worked for your living!" He looked incredulously at the slight, graceful figure beside him in the opera box, clothed in lace and satin, with pearls around her white throat and a diamond star nestling in her soft, fair hair. "I can't imagine such a thing. You seem born to the purple. Is this the wonderful disclosure that you promised me?"

"Part of it." She tried to smile into the dark eyes that regarded her seriously. "Shall we sit a little further back in the shadow? Yes, this is better. You belong in some ways to a past age; you believe that a woman should not court publicity, that she should be shielded from contact with the world, and that it takes away from her delicacy, her refinement—well, her womanliness—to have to fight her own battles. Oh, you have said a great many things like this to me."

"Yes," he said, "that is true. I suppose I am behind the age. Of course, I know it's the normal state of things in these days for women to paint, or teach, or lecture, or typewrite, or dabble in some way at earning money, even if they don't need it. That you should have had to work for your bread seems to me monstrous. But how could you think I would love you less for it? I love you ten times more."

"Hush!" she said, "you mustn't say that yet—you don't understand. I earned my bread in none of these ways. I belonged to the people. Do you remember the little girl that we nearly ran over at the crossing to-night? She wore a shabby hat and jacket and carried a big bundle. You wondered why I wanted to stop and speak to her. I carried home bundles once, like that, and then—afterward— Oh, I am trying to tell you a great deal!"

"You poor child," he said, gently. Then he added: "Were you so very poor?"

"Very. My father died just after we came here from England. His marriage had displeased my grandfather, and it was five years before he sent for us. We had no money, no friends. My mother sewed for a living. There were kind people in the house, poor like us, and they helped her to get work. There was a girl, oh, so good and kind, older than I, and when my mother fell ill and could sew no more, Dora taught me her—trade, and I supported us both. I was very young." She stopped, with a catch in her voice.

He bent in the shadowed corner of the box and kissed the fluttering hand nearest him. In the gay, rustling, crowded house they were two alone.

"Dear," he said, simply, "don't talk about this any more. You in want, and I upon this earth! That is what hurts me."

"And you don't care to know?"

"I care to know nothing—now. Can't I feel you trembling? Ah, what does it matter? You are you. Why, dear heart, if you had been a cigarette worker, a street singer or a ballet girl——"

"A ballet girl!"

"You shall not speak so lightly—of one. A ballet girl was my first love. I used to come here to see her ten years ago. It's the same ballet to-night; I had a fancy for it. You need not mind! She was a little slip of a thing, with innocent blue eyes, who stood next the end of the line. She didn't dance very well, but there was an unconscious, childish gladness in every motion. She seemed youth and joyousness and purity incarnate. I can't describe to you how she affected me. It brought tears to my eyes sometimes to look at her. I don't know what became of her, but I would stake my life on that child's truth—that her surroundings had no power to touch her. Do you think me sentimental?"

"Horribly!" She laughed, but her cheek was pale. "Did you never speak to her?"

He shook his head. "No, but I sent her a present once—I was just leaving for Germany—a bunch of forget-me-nots and a little forget-me-not ring in them. It was very boyish."

"Forget-me-nots! And then you went away and forgot all about her!"

"No, there you're wrong. Do you know, the first time I saw your eyes I thought of her? They have the same expression. I have never found it in another woman, though I have always sought it. Consciously or unconsciously, it has been the touchstone of love with me. The orchestra is getting ready to begin, and everyone is coming back to the boxes. What have you to say to my story? Ah—" he stopped suddenly and drew a quick breath. "Why do you look at me like that, here, where I cannot kiss you?"

"Oh!" she sighed, and held her ungloved left hand in front of him. On the fourth finger was a forget-me-not ring.