“Well, the lady who sung the part of Siebel.” “Siebel?” muttered Severne. “Yes,” said Vizard, dejectedly. Severne fixed his eyes on his friend with a strange expression of confusion and curiosity, as if he could not take it all in. But he said nothing, only looked very hard all the time. Vizard burst out, “'O miserae hominum mentes, O pectora caeca!' There I sat, in the stalls, a happy man comparatively, because my heart, though full of scars, was at peace, and my reason, after periodical abdications, had resumed its throne, for good; so I, weak mortal, fancied. Siebel appeared; tall, easy, dignified, and walking like a wave; modest, fair, noble, great, dreamy, and, above all, divinely sad; the soul of womanhood and music poured from her honey lips; she conquered all my senses: I felt something like a bolt of ice run down my back. I ought to have jumped up and fled the theater. I wish I had. But I never do. I am incurable. The charm deepened; and when she had sung 'Le Parlate d'Amor' as no mortal ever sung and looked it, she left the stage and carried my heart and soul away with her. What chance had I? Here shone all the beauties that adorn the body, all the virtues and graces that embellish the soul; they were wedded to poetry and ravishing music, and gave and took enchantment. I saw my paragon glide away, like a goddess, past the scenery, and I did not see her meet her lover at the next step--a fellow with a wash-leather face, greasy locks in a sausage roll, and his hair shaved off his forehead--and snatch a pot of porter from his hands, and drain it to the dregs, and say, 'It is all right, Harry: _that_ fetched 'em.' But I know, by experience, she did; so _sauve qui peut._ Dear friend and fellow-lunatic, for my sake and yours, leave Frankfort with me to-morrow.” Severne hung his head, and thought hard. Here was a new and wonderful turn. He felt all manner of strange things--a pang of jealousy, for one. He felt that, on every account, it would be wise to go, and, indeed, dangerous to stay. But a mania is a mania, and so he could not. “Look here, old fellow,” he said, “if the opera were on to-morrow, I would leave my three hundred behind me and sacrifice myself to you, sooner than expose you to the fascinations of so captivating a woman as Ina Klosking.” “Ina Klosking? Is that her name? How do _you_ know?” “I--I--fancy I heard so.” “Why, she was not announced. Ina Klosking! It is a sweet name;” and he sighed. “But you are quite safe from her for one day,” continued Severne, “so you must be reasonable. I will go with you, Tuesday, as early as you like; but do be a good fellow, and let me have the five hundred, to try my system with to-morrow.” Vizard looked sad, and made no reply. Severne got impatient. “Why, what is it to a rich fellow like you? If I had twelve thousand acres in a ring fence, no friend would ask me twice for such a trifling sum.”