I introduced them to each other at the theatre door. We were early, and had nearly three-quarters of an hour to wait. Owen and I began to talk, but our conversation evidently bored George, who, in the midst of it, introduced a characteristic remark of his own, at which I laughed, though I did not want to. Owen, who did not always see a joke, and who would have detested the best joke in the world of the particular kind George most affected, instantly relapsed into silence. He looked at George for a moment; then he took a copy of the “Golden Treasury” translation of Plato’s “Republic” from his pocket and began to read. I had known well enough something of this sort was bound to happen, and I made no attempt to bridge it over. George nudged me with his elbow and closed his left eye. Owen’s disapproval did not put him about in the least, and he continued to chatter quite unabashed. Presently the fire-proof curtain went up, the lights were raised, and the band straggled in and began to tune their fiddles. The conductor followed, a fat little German with a bald head which shone like a large ostrich egg. He faced the audience and bowed two or three times to their applause; then, turning round, he tapped the music stand sharply with his baton, and the first phrase was drawn slowly out on the ’cellos. With the end of the overture the lights were turned down, and the curtain rose on the lonely Faust, seated before a skull, an hour-glass, and a large book, in his study. I had already forgotten Owen, George, and everything but what I saw before me. I was surprised to find that this old, grey-bearded man, who looked, in the dimness, like an Albert Durer print, had a fresh, strong, tenor voice. Outside I heard the singing of the peasants; then followed the rage and despair of Faust, and, in a flaming red light, the apparition of Mephistopheles. Faust pleaded for his lost youth, and Mephistopheles tempted him; the wall of the study suddenly dissolved like a mist, and the vision of Margaret, seated at her spinning-wheel, rose before the unhappy philosopher; and the swinging, sensual phrase, repeated again and again in the orchestra, lulled me to a dreamy languor. _Faust._――“Heavenly vision!” _Mephistopheles._――“Shall she love thee?” There could be but one answer, and I saw Faust yield to the tempter; I saw his rejuvenescence; and a triumphant duet between them brought the act to a close.