"Mamma, don't stare so." "Don't criticize everything I do." At one of these concerts Lilly shot out her hand suddenly, closing it over her mother's wrist. "Mamma, there's Lindsley. See, down there in the fourth row." "Who?" "My English teacher. See, polishing his eyeglasses." Mrs. Becker sat straight, chin out like an antenna. "Is that him?" "Yes, that's he." "I don't see anything so wonderful about him. He needs a haircut." "Oh, mamma, you think all men have to wear their hair short and ugly like papa and Uncle Buck. In the East men look like that." "The idea! A man calls himself a man coming to a matinee like this. Your papa ought to know that you have a sissy like him on your mind. Such a looking thing! Ugh!" These recurring intimations could sting Lilly almost to tears. "Oh, mamma, that's just the--the meanest thing to say. Can't I show you my English teacher without having him on my mind?" "I never could stand a man whose teeth stick out. He looks like a horse." "Papa's teeth stick out." "Yes, but just one, and his mustache hides that. I only hope for you, Lilly, that some day you get a man as good as your father." "How did papa propose to you, mamma? What did he say?" Even Mrs. Becker could flush, quite prettily, too, her lids dropping at this not infrequent query of Lilly's. "It's not nice for young girls to ask such questions." "Go on, mamma, what did he say?" "I don't remember." The overture broke in upon them then, a brilliantly noisy one from Tschaikowsky that bathed them in a vichy of excited surf. Settling with her head snuggled against her fur tippet, the back of her neck against the chair top, Lilly could feel herself recede, as it were, into a sort of anagogical half consciousness, laved and carried along on currents of melody that were as sensually delicious as a warm bath. Her awareness of Lindsley on a diagonal from her so that she could see his profile hook into the music-scented dimness, ran under her skin like a quick shimmer. The proscenium arch curved again into her consciousness, herself its center and vocal beyond the powers of the human organ. The slamming up of chairs and mussy shuffling into wraps recalled her. It was indescribably sad, this swimming up to reality. The buttoning of her little tippet. The smell of damp umbrellas. Then the jamming down the aisle toward the late and rainy afternoon. At the door they were suddenly crushed up against Horace Lindsley, his coat collar turned up about his ears. "Miss Becker," he said, by way of greeting, nodding and showing his teeth. Her heart became a little elevator dropping in sheer descent. "Oh--how--do--you--do?" They were pushed shoulder to shoulder, and, to Lilly's agony, her mother's voice lifted itself in loud concern. "For pity's sake, look at that downpour, will you? I hope your father has the good sense to wear his rubbers. Ouch! Don't knock me down, please." "Mamma--please. Mr. Lindsley, I want you to meet my mother."