could not have happened. And so I place him in the forefront of the
narrative.




CHAPTER II

AT THE OPERA


It was with a certain nervousness that I mentioned Sullivan's name to
the gentleman at the receipt of tickets--a sort of transcendantly fine
version of Keith Prowse's clerk--but Sullivan had not exaggerated his
own importance. They did look after me. They looked after me with such
respectful diligence that I might have been excused for supposing that
they had mistaken me for the Shah of Persia in disguise. I was
introduced into Sullivan's box with every circumstance of pomp. The
box was empty. Naturally I had arrived there first. I sat down, and
watched the enormous house fill, but not until I had glanced into the
mirror that hung on the crimson partition of the box to make sure that
my appearance did no discredit to Sullivan and the great lady, his
wife.

At eight o'clock, when the conductor appeared at his desk to an
accompaniment of applauding taps from the musicians, the house was
nearly full. The four tiers sent forth a sparkle of diamonds, of silk,
and of white arms and shoulders which rivalled the glitter of the vast
crystal chandelier. The wide floor of serried stalls (those stalls of
which one pair at least had gone for six pound ten) added their more