She had made the right remark. Most
undoubtedly she had made the right remark. This stiff
suburban woman was unbending before the shrine.
"Don't you like it at all?" he asked her.
"Most awfully." And by this bald interchange they
convinced each other that Romance was here.
Harriet, meanwhile, had been coughing ominously at the
drop-scene, which presently rose on the grounds of
Ravenswood, and the chorus of Scotch retainers burst into
cry. The audience accompanied with tappings and drummings,
swaying in the melody like corn in the wind. Harriet,
though she did not care for music, knew how to listen to
it. She uttered an acid "Shish!"
"Shut it," whispered her brother.
"We must make a stand from the beginning. They're talking."
"It is tiresome," murmured Miss Abbott; "but perhaps it
isn't for us to interfere."
Harriet shook her head and shished again. The people
were quiet, not because it is wrong to talk during a chorus,
but because it is natural to be civil to a visitor. For a
little time she kept the whole house in order, and could
smile at her brother complacently.
Her success annoyed him. He had grasped the principle
of opera in Italy--it aims not at illusion but at
entertainment--and he did not want this great evening-party
to turn into a prayer-meeting. But soon the boxes began to
fill, and Harriet's power was over. Families greeted each
other across the auditorium. People in the pit hailed their
brothers and sons in the chorus, and told them how well they
were singing.
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