I.

    On a January
          evening of the early seventies,
           Christine Nilsson
            was singing
                   in Faust
                 at the Academy of Music
                   in New York.

    Though there was already talk
           of the erection,
         in remote metropolitan distances
         "above the Forties,"
            of a new Opera House
              which should compete
                   in costliness and splendour
                 with those
                       of the great European capitals,
           the world of fashion was
             still content
                  to reassemble every
                      winter in the shabby red
                           and gold boxes
                               of the sociable old Academy.

    Conservatives cherished it for
        being small and inconvenient,
           and thus keeping out the
         "new people"
            whom New York
            was beginning
                  to dread and yet
                be drawn to;
        and the sentimental
            clung to it
                   for its historic associations,
           and the musical
               for its excellent acoustics,
         always so problematic a quality
               in halls
              built for
                   the hearing of music.

    It was Madame Nilsson's
           first appearance
         that winter,
           and what the daily press
            had already learned
                  to describe
                       as "an
                         exceptionally
                            brilliant audience"
                had gathered to hear her,
         transported through the slippery,
           snowy streets in private broughams,
         in the spacious family landau,
           or in the humbler
          but more convenient
              "Brown coupe" To
                  come to the Opera
                       in a Brown coupe
                was almost
                       as honourable a way
                           of arriving
                       as in one's own carriage;
        and departure
               by the same means
            had the immense advantage
                   of enabling one
         (with a playful allusion
               to democratic principles)
          to scramble
               into the first Brown conveyance
             in the line,
               instead of waiting
                 till the cold-and-gin congested nose
                       of one's own coachman
                    gleamed under the portico
                           of the Academy.

    It was
           one of the great livery-stableman's
         most masterly intuitions
          to have discovered
         that Americans want
              to get away from amusement
         even more quickly than
           they want
              to get to it.

    When Newland Archer
          opened the door
               at the back
                   of the club
               box the curtain
        had just
              gone up
                   on the garden scene.

    There was no reason
         why the young man
            should not have come earlier,
           for he
            had dined at seven,
         alone with his mother
               and sister,
           and had lingered afterward
               over a cigar
                   in the Gothic library with
              glazed black-walnut bookcases
                   and finial-topped chairs
              which was the
                  only room in the house
             where Mrs. Archer allowed smoking.

    But,
           in the first place,
         New York was a metropolis,
           and perfectly aware
             that in metropolises it was
         "not the thing"
            to arrive early
               at the opera;
        and what
            was or was
                   not "the thing"
                  played a part
                       as important
                           in Newland Archer's New York
                       as the inscrutable totem terrors
             that had
                  ruled the destinies
                       of his forefathers thousands
                     of years ago.

    The second
         reason for his delay
        was a personal one.

    He had dawdled
           over his cigar
         because he
            was at heart a dilettante,
           and thinking over a pleasure
              to come often
                gave him a subtler satisfaction
                       than its realisation.

    This was especially the case
         when the pleasure
            was a delicate one,
           as his pleasures mostly were;
        and on this
              occasion the moment
             he looked forward to
                was so rare and exquisite
                       in quality that
         --well,
               if he
                had timed his arrival
                       in accord
                     with the prima donna's stage-manager
                 he could not
                      have entered the Academy
                        at a more significant
                                moment than
                          just as
                 she was singing:
             "He loves me
              --
           he loves me not
          --HE LOVES ME!

    --" and sprinkling
           the falling daisy petals
         with notes as
          clear as dew.

    She sang,
           of course,
         "M'ama!"

    and not
         "he loves me,"
            since an unalterable
               and unquestioned law
                   of the musical world required
             that the German text
                   of French operas
                  sung by Swedish artists
                should be