There was a curious, half-detached sadness in her tone. Frank wondered suddenly if he had blundered. Bertha had never mentioned her parents. He vaguely understood that they had died abroad and had foreborne to question, fearing to arouse some tragic memory. "Of course, it really doesn't matter," he said hastily; "it's only when people put on airs that I think of such things." She took his arm with fingers that trembled slightly. "Let us go in. The overture is beginning." During an intermission she whispered. "I wish I were like Carmen--bold enough to fight the world for lo--for what I wanted." "Aren't you?" he turned and looked at her. "No, sometimes I'm overwhelmed ... feel as though I can't look life in the face." He saw that her lips were trembling, that her eyes were winking back the tears. "What is it, dear?" he questioned. But she did not answer. The curtain rose upon the final act. Silently they moved out with a throng whose silk skirts swished and rustled. The men were restless, glad of a chance at the open and a smoke; the women gay, exalted, half intoxicated by the musical appeal to their emotions. There was an atmosphere almost of hysteria in the great swiftly emptying auditorium. "I feel sort of--smothered," Bertha said; "suppose we walk." "Gladly," answered Frank, "but what about the coupe?" "There's one of these new livery stables with machine shop attached not far away. They call it a garage.... We'll leave the brougham there," she said. * * * * * The night was curiously still--breathless one might have called it. While the temperature was not high, there was an effect of warmth, vaguely disturbing like the presage of a storm. As they traversed a region of hotels and apartment houses, Frank and Bertha noted many open windows; men and women staring out half dreamily. They passed a livery stable, out of which there came a weird uncanny dissonance of horses neighing in their stalls. "Tell me of your actress friend. Do you see her often?" Bertha asked. "Not very. She's a good pal. But she's ... well, not like you." Her eyes searched him. "Do you mean she's not as--pretty, Frank?" "Oh, I don't know," he answered. "It's because I love you, dear. Aleta's right enough. But she's not--oh, you know--essential." Bertha squeezed his arm. Was silent for a moment. Then, "Aleta's father was a circus rider?" "Acrobat. Yes, he was killed when she was quite a child." "But she remembers him; they were married, her mother" and he." "Why, yes, I suppose so ... naturally." There was another silence. Suddenly he turned on her, perplexed. "Bertha, what is wrong with you tonight?" They were crossing a little park high up above the city whose lights lay, shimmering and misty, below. The stillness was obtrusive here. Not a leaf stirred. There was no one about. They might have been alone upon some tropic peak. "I--can't tell you, Frank." Her tone of blended longing and despair caught at his heart.