bureau, that he looked omniscient.  At least the imagination of spectators invested him with a golden hue, and regarded him through the roseate atmosphere that surrounds a many-millioned man.  The girl had her eyes always on the orchestra, and was waiting for the opening of the world that lay behind the drop-curtain.  Philip noticed that all the evening Mrs. Mavick paid very little attention to the stage, except when the rest of the house was so dark that she could distinguish little in it.

Fortunately for Philip, in his character of country reporter, the Mavick box was near the stage, and he could very well see what was going on in it, without wholly distracting his attention from Wagner’s sometimes very dimly illuminated creation.

There are faces and figures that compel universal attention and admiration.  Commonly there is one woman in a theatre at whom all glances are leveled.  It is a mystery why one face makes only an individual appeal, and an appeal much stronger than that of one universally admired.  The house certainly concerned itself very little about the shy and dark heiress in the Mavick box, having with regard to her only a moment’s curiosity.  But the face instantly took hold of Philip.  He found it more interesting to read the play in her face than on the stage.  He seemed instantly to have established a chain of personal sympathy with her.  So intense was his regard that it seemed as if she must, if there is anything in the telepathic theory of the interchange of feeling, have been conscious of it.  That she was, however, unconscious of any influence reaching her except from the stage was perfectly evident.  She was absorbed in the drama, even when the drama was almost lost in darkness, and only an occasional grunting ejaculation gave evidence that there was at least animal life responsive to the continual pleading, suggesting, inspiring strains of the orchestra.  In the semi-gloom and groping of the under-world, it would seem that the girl felt that mystery of life which the instruments were trying to interpret.

At any rate, Philip could see that she was rapt away into that other world of the past, to a practical unconsciousness of her immediate surroundings.  Was it the music or the poetic idea that held her?  Perhaps only the latter, for it is Wagner’s gift to reach by his creations those who have little technical knowledge of music.  At any rate, she was absorbed, and so perfectly was the progress of the drama repeated in her face that Philip, always with the help of the orchestra, could trace it there.

But presently something more was evident to this sympathetic student of her face.  She was not merely discovering the poet’s world, she was finding out herself.  As the drama unfolded, Philip was more interested in this phase than in the observation of her enjoyment and appreciation.  To see her eyes sparkle and her cheeks glow with enthusiasm during the sword-song was one thing, but it was quite another when Siegfried