"You like to be behind the scenes?" "Adore it!" "I wonder just what you think of me," she said pensively. "Have you decided what I am to become?" "Yes." She looked up, startled. "What?" "Oh, not now--later; some time when we can really talk." She wished him to invite her, but he was one of those who had the rare instinct of making women believe they were pursuing him. She was silent, thinking, too, of Sada Quichy, doubly resolved to steal him from her. "Very well," she said suddenly; "we'll dine together. They'll go on here till midnight. We can bring back some sandwiches and cold chicken for the prima donna." But, in her mind, she was resolved that, once they were at dinner, she would carry him off boldly, Sada Quichy or not. "Splendid!" he said laconically, and prepared himself for the overture, that was being announced by a vigorous lashing of the conductor's stand. Blainey had settled his body a short way in front of them, ears pricked for the commercially vital waltz motif. But in the present overture this essential did not at once appear. The operetta, which had been given the name of _The Red Prince_, was a fantastic romance of Hungary, strangely endowed with an intelligible plot, and this fresh presentation of wild dancing melodies, passionate strains of melancholy and yearning, abandoned delight and fierce exultation, was summarized in the overture. Massingale, who was an amateur of music, bent forward, breathing full, murmuring his approbation. Doré too felt strangely lifted from herself, leaping along perilous heights, striving with invisible windy shapes, that caught her and whirled her, with closed eyes and bated lips, in giddy whirlpools or sudden languorous calms. All the instincts that yesterday, in the change of the year, had vibrated to melancholy, now suddenly seemed to awake with the sufficiency of the instant. A fig for the future! She had a need of the present, of the day, of the hour, gloriously, deliciously stirred from blank realities. Her breath came quick, the little nostrils quivered, and glancing at Massingale's aristocratic forehead and jaw, she found him more than interesting-- strong, virile, fascinating in the chained-up impulses which a sudden wild burst of the czardas brought glowing to his eyes. The overture ceased amid a murmur of approbation; she moved a little way from the shoulder she had instinctively approached. "Take up that waltz again," said Blainey instantly. Brangstar, as if warned of what was coming, rebelliously gave the signal. The motif occurred in the middle of the overture, directly after the czardas. It was a tum-ti-tum but undeniably catchy affair. "Stop there!" Blainey rose and moved into the aisle. "Cut out all that follows. No grand opera stuff--we don't want it! End with that waltz. Fake it. Play it once pianissimo, fiddles; second time louder--bring in your horns. Then let go with your brass. Cut loose. Soak it to 'em! Start it up, Gus!"