It was so ridiculous that I should be coddled after the triumph of my life, as if something awful had happened to me. I had felt annoyed all day, so far as anything can now annoy me, by John's too solicitous guardianship, and it vexed me anew when he began to pile up cautions against this and against that--to warn me against going out alone upon the street, and to urge care even in my intercourse with Cadge. He is quicker than my Aunt; he divined the source of the _Star_ article, and he almost forbade me to cleave to such an indiscreet friend. "Oh, last night won't happen again," I said carelessly; "and you don't know Cadge; she's as good as the wheat." I wasn't listening to him. I was twisting his ring impatiently on my finger and watching in the play of the fire a vision of the great Opera House, the lights, the jewels, the perfumes, the white, wondering faces. "Can't you see, Nelly," replied John, with irritation, "that this Bryant woman's article practically accuses you of risking lives to gratify a whim of vanity?" "Why, John Burke, how can you say such a thing?" exclaimed Aunt Frank, overhearing his words and as usual answering only the last half dozen. "Risking lives! Poor Nelly!" "I didn't say it," John patiently explained; "but other people--" "Nobody else will talk about Nelly's vanity. Why, she hasn't a particle. As for the papers, I won't have one in the house--" "Except the _Evening Post_?" suggested Aunt Marcia. "Which Cadge says isn't a newspaper," I contributed. "--so we needn't care what they say." I was ready to laugh at John's discomfiture, but the possible truth of his words struck me, and I cried out: "People won't really believe I did it on purpose, whatever the papers say--that I went there just to be looked at! Oh, that would be horrible! Horrible!" "Of course not," John said with curt inconsistency to bring me comfort; but I had a reply more sincere--a fleeting glance only, but it said: "The Queen can do no wrong." "Oh, I hope you are right; I hope no one thought that," I said confusedly in answer to the glance. And then I bent over the Caesar that Boy laid upon my lap, while Uncle asked:-- "Well, my son, is there mutiny again in the camp of our Great and Good Friend, Divitiacus the Aeduan?" A few minutes later John said good-night with a ludicrous expression of pained, absent-minded patience. I didn't go to the door with him; I scarcely looked up from Boy's ablative absolutes. Oh I treated him shabbily. And yet--why did he use every effort that day to keep me ignorant of my own rightful affairs, only to come at me himself with a club, gibbering of newspapers? Why, John's absurd! He would have liked to find me--not ill, of course, but overcome by the Opera experience, dependent on him, ready to be shielded, hidden, petted, comforted. He can not see me as I am--a strong, splendid woman, ready to accept the responsibilities of my beauty. CHAPTER VI. LOVE IS NOTHING! Monday, Jan. 20.