"I'd like a gown like that," she said to Dick in a confidential tone as a pretty girl went by in a soft filmy blue silk. "Shall I ask her for it?" He turned as though to stop the gown's owner. "Don't be silly," was Hertha's sufficient answer. "That's a grand fellow walking with her," Dick announced. "He might be a colonel out of uniform, but the girl isn't in it with you." "Well, you needn't tell every one your opinion, please." She blushed as she spoke for they had attracted the attention of the people about them. A middle-aged gentleman, whose seat she knew was behind Dick's, was smiling and she quite erroneously believed was enjoying her discomfiture. "Let's go back," she suggested, touching Dick lightly on the arm; and the youth, happy at even so slight a sign of favor, and anxious to do her least bidding, returned with her to their seats. "You aren't going back to your old work again, now are you?" he asked. "No." "I was thinking, if you want to take up stenography, I know the best school in town. It's across the river, a mighty nice place, where you'll meet a good class of girls. It don't cost such a lot, and you can enter any time you want." "Yes?" "And there's something I want to talk with you about. It's really important. Won't you take a walk with me to-morrow?" "I don't know, I haven't much time. You see, I want to go to church in the morning and I'm going out to dinner at night." "Who are you going with?" The question was asked with some imperiousness. "With a friend." "A gentleman friend?" Defiantly. "I don't think that is anything you need to know." "Oh, of course it's none of my business, you needn't tell me that. But say, won't you go out first with me? I'll be around at two o'clock and bring you back by five or six. That'll be in time for your little dinner, won't it now?" "Perhaps so." She buried herself again in her libretto. "Mr. Brown," she said after a minute. "Listen to what the last scene will be. It's a horrid dungeon, for Manrico and his mother are in prison. As she lies there on her bed she thinks of the mountains where she was born, and that she and her son will go back there together and live in peace. When she sings it, just think about the hills in your own home." He looked at her in some surprise. "I will," he said, "just the way you say, and about my mother, too. It all seems real to you, don't it?" "Very real!" "Somehow it hasn't to me. I can't seem to think of people standing up and singing this way if they've anything to tell. It takes so everlastingly long. Just suppose that when I went to business to-morrow I should throw my hand out like this," with a broad, forward gesture that barely missed the head of the lady in front of him, "and sing: Oh, Mr. Weinstein, it's nine o'clock, sir, Oh, don't you want me to walk down the block, sir? And then he'd answer with his arms folded like this: Oh, Mr. Brown, get on to your job----