one of them: "Here we are all alone in the wilderness--alone in
the wilderness--in the wilderness alone, alone, alone--here we
are in the wilderness--alone in the wilderness--all all alone
in the wilderness," and soon, till I felt inclined to call for
the learned person who writes Oratorios, and beg him to give
the poor music a more generous allowance of words.

Whenever I looked at Philip, I found him looking at me. Perhaps
he saw from the first that the music was wearying music to my
ignorant ears. With his usual delicacy he said nothing for some
time. But when he caught me yawning (though I did my best to hide
it, for it looked like being ungrateful for the tickets), then he
could restrain himself no longer. He whispered in my ear:

"You are getting tired of this. And so am I."

"I am trying to like it," I whispered back.

"Don't try," he answered. "Let's talk."

He meant, of course, talk in whispers. We were a good deal
annoyed--especially when the characters were all alone in the
wilderness--by bursts of singing and playing which interrupted us
at the most interesting moments. Philip persevered with a manly
firmness. What could I do but follow his example--at a distance?

He said: "Is it really true that your visit to Mrs. Staveley is
coming to an end?"

I answered: "It comes to an end the day after to-morrow."