At the end of the act Brand went up to the box and tapped outside.  It was opened from within, and he entered.  Natalie turned to receive him; she was a little pale, he thought; he took a seat immediately behind her; and there was some general talk until the opening of the second act restored silence.

For him it was a strange silence, that the music outside did not disturb.  Sitting behind her, he could study the beautiful profile and the outward curve of her dark eyelashes; he could see where here and there a delicate curl of the raven-black hair, escaping from the mob-cap of rose-red silk, lay about the small ear or wandered down to the shapely white neck; he could almost, despite the music, fancy he heard her breathe, as the black gossamer and scarlet flowers of an Indian shawl stirred over the shining satin dress.  Her fan and handkerchief were perfumed with white-rose.

And to-morrow he would be in Wolverhampton, amidst grimy streets and dirty houses, in a leaden-hued atmosphere laden with damp and the fumes of chimneys, practically alone, with days of monotonous work before him, and solitary evenings to be spent in cheerless inns.  What wonder if this seemed some brief vision of paradise—­the golden light and glowing color, the soft strains of music, the scent of white-rose?

Doubtless Natalie had seen this opera of Fidelio many a time before; but she was always intently interested in music; and she had more than once expressed in Brand’s hearing her opinion of the conduct of the ladies and gentlemen who make an opera, or a concert, or a play a mere adjunct to their own foolish laughter and tittle-tattle.  She recognized the serious aims of a great artist; she listened with deep attention and respect; she could talk idly elsewhere and at other times.  And so there was scarcely a word said—­except of involuntary admiration—­as the opera proceeded.  But in the scene where the disguised wife discovers her husband in the prison—­where, as Pizarro is about to stab him, she flings herself between them to protect him—­Brand could see that Natalie Lind was fast losing her manner of calm and critical attention, and yielding to a profounder emotion.  When Leonora reveals herself to her husband, and swears that she will save him, even such a juncture, from his vindictive enemy—­

    “Si, si, mio dolce amico,
     La tua Eleonora ti salvera;
     Affronto il suo furor!”

the girl gave a slight convulsive sob, and her hands were involuntarily clasped.  Then, as every one knows, Leonora draws a pistol from her bosom and confronts the tyrant; a trumpet is heard in the distance; relief is near; and the act winds up with the joyful duet between the released husband and the courageous wife—­“Destin, destin ormai felice!”

Here it was that Calabressa proposed he should escort Madame Potecki to the cooler air of the large saloon; and madame, who had been young herself, and guessed that the lovers might like to be alone for a few minutes, instantly and graciously acquiesced.  But Natalie rose also, a little quickly, and said that Madame Potecki and herself would be glad to have some coffee; and could that be got in the saloon?