“It was worth waiting two centuries to hear,” I began, but feeling the compliment rather banal, I hastened to say, “Acquilla tells me you are dining with us tomorrow night. We can discuss it then.” “Did you find it changed? It satisfies you? Have I departed too much from tradition?” she asked rapidly. “Changed, yes, but wonderfully so. I am still dazzled.” “I don’t want compliments,” she said, smiling with pleasure, more at the intensity of feeling in my voice than at my halting words. “What was there to criticize?” “In your performance--nothing,” I said emphatically. “The conception of Tristan, perhaps, was rather--rather--” “Too masculine,” she interrupted avidly. “I knew it. I have always said so!” she continued with a satisfaction that showed me that the feminine in the artist had not changed so much. “On the contrary--I found--what shall I say--I found it rather too feminine.” “Feminine?” she cried, opening her lovely grey-blue eyes. “But I don’t understand, I thought it lacked rugged strength.” “My dear Dianne,” I said, smiling, “I do not know what your new civilization has done to my fellowmen, but I assure you in my time, virility, robustness, vigor were qualities we associated with the male sex.” “Oh--” Her glance rested on mine in renewed curiosity. “I see. How curious! That is a new point of view.” “It is a point of view, isn’t it?” “But rather hard to make comprehensible to a modern audience,” she said doubtfully. “You are different, Bogardus, very different. Your voice is different. You look at me differently, straight in the eyes. Yes, strangely, disconcertingly different.” “You too,” I was about to continue, in the more personal tone her look seemed to permit, when the presence of Acquilla at my back recalled my caution. “At any rate,” I added, carefully, “even if we quarrel, our discussion promises to be interesting.” “Well, if I can put off an engagement, I’ll come,” she answered in a changed voice, which for the moment puzzled me. “Thanks all the same, Acquilla. Your find ought to prove most instructive, I’m sure.” We returned to the theatre. “Do you find her beautiful?” said Acquilla, looking at me sharply. “Oh, in a stagey sort of way,” I replied on my guard. “Is she intelligent?” “In a limited way, yes, but rather capricious.” “As a matter of fact, I had to be polite, but one or two things in her performance rather shocked me. For instance, Isolde should be played as a blonde.” Deceived by my manner, Acquilla replied: “That is part of her capriciousness. She never will consent to appear as a blonde. There are, of course, strong differences between the blondes and the brunettes as we breed them, and to tell you a little secret, the brunettes are extremely jealous of us.” “Aha!” I exclaimed, suppressing a smile. “Because, after all, they are usually of a lower caste, you know.”