"Quite right. But I am afraid we are too young a country to tolerate middle-aged heroines. We are steeped in conventionalism, for all our fads. We have certain cast-iron formulae for life, and associate love with youth alone. I think we have a vague idea that autumnal love is rather indecent." "And you--yourself?" She looked at him speculatively. "Are you too obsessed?" "I? Good lord, no. I was in love with a woman of forty when I was seventeen." His eyes were glowing into hers and she demanded abruptly: "Do you think I am forty?" "Rather not!" "Well, I am young," she said with a deep sigh of content. "But look! I see nothing, but I see everything." Clavering glanced about him. Every neck in the boxes and neighboring seats was craned. It was evident that the people in front--and no doubt behind--were listening intently, although they could have caught no more than an occasional word of the murmured conversation. Eyes across the aisle, when not distended with surprise, glared at him. He laughed softly. "I am the best hated man in New York tonight." Then he asked abruptly: "If you wish to avoid fashionable society why not see something of this? It would be quite a new experience and vary the monotony of books and plays." "I may--some time, if you will kindly arrange it. But I am not a stranger to the cognoscenti. In London, of course, they are received, sought after. In Paris not so much, but one still meets them.--the most distinguished. In Berlin the men might go to court but not the women. In Vienna--well, genius will not give quarterings. But alas! so many gifted people seem to come out of the bourgeoisie, or lower down still--whether they are received or not depends largely on their table manners." "Oh, I assure you, our cognoscenti have very good table manners indeed!" "I am sure of it," she said graciously. "I have an idea that American table manners are the best in the world. Is it true that one never sees toothpicks on the table here?" "Good lord, yes!" "Well, you see them on every aristocratic table in Europe, royalty not excepted." "One more reason for revolution---- Oh! Hang it!" The lights had gone out. Clavering half rose, then settled himself back and folded his arms. A man stood over him. "Just take my seat, Billy, will you?" he asked casually of the eminent critic. "It's only two back." The eminent critic gave him a look of hate, emitted a noise that resembled a hiss, hesitated long enough to suggest violence, then with the air of a bloodhound with his tail between his legs, slunk up the aisle. "Will you tell me how you always manage to get one of these prize seats?" asked Clavering at the fall of the second curtain. "Nothing in New York is more difficult of attainment than a good seat--any seat--for a first-night. All these people, including myself, have a pull of some sort--know the author, star, manager. Many of us receive notifications long in advance."