sombre brilliance to the show, while far above, stretching away
indefinitely to the very furthest roof, was the gallery (where but for
Sullivan I should have been), a mass of black spotted with white
faces.

Excitement was in the air: the expectation of seeing once again
Rosetta Rosa, the girl with the golden throat, the mere girl who, two
years ago, had in one brief month captured London, and who now, after
a period of petulance, had decided to recapture London. On ordinary
nights, for the inhabitants of boxes, the Opera is a social
observance, an exhibition of jewels, something between an F.O.
reception and a conversazione with music in the distance. But to-night
the habitués confessed a genuine interest in the stage itself,
abandoning their rôle of players. Dozens of times since then have I
been to the Opera, and never have I witnessed the candid enthusiasm
of that night. If London can be naïve, it was naïve then.

The conductor raised his baton. The orchestra ceased its tuning. The
lights were lowered. Silence and stillness enwrapped the auditorium.
And the quivering violins sighed out the first chords of the
"Lohengrin" overture. For me, then, there existed nothing save the
voluptuous music, to which I abandoned myself as to the fascination of
a dream. But not for long. Just as the curtain rose, the door behind
me gave a click, and Sullivan entered in all his magnificence. I
jumped up. On his arm in the semi-darkness I discerned a tall,
olive-pale woman, with large handsome features of Jewish cast, and
large, liquid black eyes. She wore a dead-white gown, and over this a
gorgeous cloak of purple and mauve.

"Emmeline, this is Carl," Sullivan whispered.