"Congratulations!" cried Truesdale, heartily, and Mrs. Belden turned round to see the reason for it. He remembered how he himself had panted for the Scala, and for the Apollo at Rome--that poor Apollo, razed to the ground before ever he could behold its historic stage. "I've been to your opera myself," the other girl proclaimed. "What was the matter with all the box people, anyway? They seemed afraid to assert themselves. I never saw a lot of rich people so cowed-like." "Do you mean that they kept quiet during the performance?" asked Truesdale. "The effect _was_ rather primitive, wasn't it? Whenever _I_ sing I always ask the whole room to shout-especially if somebody shows any sign of listening." "And I thought they looked pretty plain, too," the girl volunteered further. "If you want to see style and display, take the Metropolitan on a real gala night. I didn't see half a dozen necklaces among your people--and not a single tiara." "You should have worn yours," declared Truesdale, genially. "Every one would have helped." Yes, she seemed second-rate, truly, and the worst type of a second-rate person at that--the second-rate person away from home. "Let _her_ have them," he whispered to Bertie, as a brace of new-comers crossed the threshold. "She'll take them anyway," said Bertie, ruefully. She did not at all seem to realize the greater triumph of completely monopolizing the one man present. "I wanted to walk in the foy--in the place where they promenade," Bertie went on; "such a lovely place, and such a grand crush under all those yellow arches! But we didn't have any gentleman," she concluded, lamely. "Never mind; you'll have one next time," responded Truesdale; gallantly. "I'm awfully fond of that place, already--the whole of it. It's one of the few good things they've got here. It's the only place in town where you can see any number of nice people together." "Oh, really," protested Mrs. Belden, speaking to him for the first time. She had decided that he was worth talking to, as well as concluded that his attentions had been given too exclusively to one side of the table. "Oh, really, now!" Her voice was thickly, sweetly sibilant. "I shall hope to show you that you are wrong. Gladys, child, remind me to send this young man a card for a week from Wednesday." "Very well," answered Truesdale; "I'm perfectly willing to be convinced. Only don't ask me to a dinner--I can't sit through a dinner. A little bit of a tea--well, that's different." And he turned his friendly eyes in the direction of Bertie Patterson. "It isn't a dinner," said Mrs. Belden, as brusquely as her vocalization would allow. "It's--" But a new-comer advanced, and she turned to manipulate her teapot with her large, fair, plump hands.