There was a dark scattering of people through the beehive-shaped yellowshot emptiness of the Boston Theatre. On the stage in white dresses against red draperies the ladies' orchestra played the overture to Light Cavalry, violin bows sawing in unison, cheeks puffed out at trumpets, drumsticks dancing. In front stood the conductress in a neat tailored suit waving her arms discreetly. Nan sat in on the aisle with her little black hat topping some packages on the seat beside her, looking at the conductress's white gloves, thinking bitterly of suffragettes setting bombs under Asquith in London while the shiny glib marchtime of the music made her remember Balaklava and her spine going cold as she read: Into the valley of death charged the six hundred. How was it things she read never thrilled her now like that? Rights for Women ought to excite her as much as that silly antiquated poem. The music had stopped; two women in front of her were talking about the cretons at Jordan Marsh's. Let's see, had she bought the lace for the V, the ruching Miss Spence wanted, that blue crepe de chine, the buttons? She'd make sure on her list anyway after she'd picked up Fitzie. Fine it would be, if Miss Spence could finish it in time for Aunt M.'s tomorrow night. All those old people put her on her mettle; they'd think the brightness of it daring, bleared eyes watching her as she stood straight in tight royal blue, a gleam of red caught into her hair out of the violin. She had to affirm her separateness from poor dear Aunt M. and her friends. The orchestra was playing selections from The Tales of Hoffman which set Nan remembering being in Paris with Gertrude Fagan, the smell of tea and pastry through the foggy tang of the air on the rue Cambon, shopping, jumping in and out of cabs with silky things in tissue paper packages, hotel François Choiseuil and the two of them giggling together in the evening beside a pink shade over sole with wine sauce. If it had been Wenny in Gertrude's place; the thought set her blood seething. But I have you, my love: the word fluttered in her throat. She moistened her dry lips with her tongue. The music had stopped.