A friendship had sprung up here, which, born out of the merest
propinquity, had sent down strong roots into the common ground
between them.
One or two nights they had attended the theater together, on orchestra
passes given out to them by one or the other of the Visigoths.
One Wednesday evening they saw the "School for Scandal" presented at the
Academy of Music, and once, just before the permanent departure of R.J.
for Chicago, he had tossed negligently across the desk a single balcony
ticket for Eames in "Faust."
"Here is something ought to keep one of you busy this rainy evening."
Ensued a highly feminine parley.
"Mrs. Blair, you take the ticket. Really, I'm too tired and I've some
sewing to do."
"Nonsense! You're musical and I'm not. Besides, it will do you a world
of good."
"I don't know," said Lilly, her lips giving a sensitive quiver. "I've
put it so out of my mind that it might only tantalize."
But in the end she did attend, seating herself, for the first time in
her life, in the F-minor, the perfumed twilight of the Metropolitan
Opera House, just as the velvet curtains swished sibilantly apart.
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