to acquire the learning of the brothels of Paris.  And then he came home and struck the Tenderloin; and at three o’clock one morning he walked through a plate-glass window, and so the newspapers took him up.  That had suddenly opened a new vista in life for Charlie—­he became a devotee of fame; everywhere he went he was followed by newspaper reporters and a staring crowd.  He carried wads as big round as his arm, and gave away hundred-dollar tips to bootblacks, and lost forty thousand dollars in a game of poker.  He gave a fete to the demi-monde, with a jewelled Christmas tree in midsummer, and fifty thousand dollars’ worth of splendour.  But the greatest stroke of all was the announcement that he was going to build a submarine yacht and fill it with chorus-girls!—­Now Charlie had sunk out of public attention, and his friends would not see him for days; he would be lying in a “sporting house” literally wallowing in champagne.

And all this, Montague realized, his brother must have known!  And he had said not a word about it—­because of the eight or ten millions which Charlie would have when he was twenty-five!

CHAPTER IX

In the morning they went home with others of the party by train.  They could not wait for Charlie and his automobile, because Monday was the opening night of the Opera, and no one could miss that.  Here Society would appear in its most gorgeous raiment, and, there would be a show of jewellery such as could be seen nowhere else in the world.

General Prentice and his wife had opened their town-house, and had invited them to dinner and to share their box; and so at about half-past nine o’clock Montague found himself seated in a great balcony of the shape of a horseshoe, with several hundred of the richest people in the city.  There was another tier of boxes above, and three galleries above that, and a thousand or more people seated and standing below him.  Upon the big stage there was an elaborate and showy play, the words of which were sung to the accompaniment of an orchestra.

Now Montague had never heard an opera, and he was fond of music.  The second act had just begun when he came in, and all through it he sat quite spellbound, listening to the most ravishing strains that ever he had heard in his life.  He scarcely noticed that Mrs. Prentice was spending her time studying the occupants of the other boxes through a jewelled lorgnette, or that Oliver was chattering to her daughter.

But after the act was over, Oliver got him alone outside the box, and whispered, “For God’s sake, Allan, don’t make a fool of yourself.”

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked the other.

“What will people think,” exclaimed Oliver, “seeing you sitting there like a man in a dope dream?”

“Why,” laughed the other, “they’ll think I’m listening to the music.”

To which Oliver responded, “People don’t come to the Opera to listen to the music.”