A long and motley line of carriages was slowly arriving at the Auditorium entrance. A surging, gaping crowd was jostling the few policemen on duty and trying to catch a glimpse of the brilliant dresses of the women hurrying into the lobby. Long, furry wraps and covered heads, perhaps a gleam of hidden diamonds, were all they saw; but it was a passing glance into a forbidden, dazzling world. Footmen scurried, doors were slammed, horses stamped, and husky-voiced policemen called out orders to the coachmen. A long awning covered the carpeted walk, and electric lamps shed a brilliant light upon the muffled comers and the eager faces of the waiting crowd. It was not a wan, hungry crowd of starving beggars, such as often surrounds a foreign theater; it was not a silent, wondering crowd; but American-like, it was cheerful and humorous, envious, perhaps, but merry in its envy. It laughed and gibed at every novelty, and its jokes were shared alike by the smart English coachmen and the driver of the antiquated family "carry-all." It was impudent, too, but it was the impudence of the great Republic,—the bold assertion of freedom and prosperity.

In the crowded lobby long lines of people were depositing wraps at the cloak-room windows, some were standing in little groups, and hundreds of others were passing up the grand marble staircase into the hall above; Libretto sellers' cries and the scurrying tread of many feet upon the hard mosaic mingled with the distant strains of music, and scores of glittering lights shone upon the marble walls, and the countless, brilliant dresses of the moving throng. On into the great hall the people went. Five thousand seats were being filled, and, tier above tier, they rose like a section of a Roman theatre. Two rows of boxes lined the sides. Delicate wall tints and carefully toned lights blended softly with pretty faces and many colored gowns. The colors were an artist's work and masterly was it done. Up from the stage rose a mass of faces. An unbroken multitude it was, grand and impressive. Down at the front a little man was frantically leading an army of skilled musicians, whose rhythmical efforts filled the noble audience-room with the overture of Verdi's masterpiece, and as the last note rolled far away, up into the balcony loft, and was lost amid the subdued whisperings and rustling programmes, the lights were dimmed, the stately curtain slowly rose, and ten thousand hands applauded a welcome to the great singer from distant Italy. Thousands of music lovers wonderingly listened to the amazing power and range of Tamagno's voice, hundreds stood at the back of the amphitheatre, and even the little swinging gallery away up in the eaves was crowded with humble enthusiasts. But there were a conspicuous few whose whisperings and laughter mingled with the artist's notes; a few whose bids were highest at the auction sale of boxes, and whose tardy, noisy coming accentuated their social prominence and exasperated every lover of good music and good manners.

Among these was Mrs. Roswell Sanderson, who, with her husband, Florence Moreland, and Mr. Walter Sedger, had just entered a box, in the upper, left-hand tier.

"What a superb audience-room," said Florence Moreland as she put aside her fur-lined cloak and took her opera glass out of its case. "How beautifully it lights up. I don't think I ever saw a finer sight."

"Do you think so, Florence?" replied Marion Sanderson. "To me it is just like everything else Chicago produces, stupendous and gaudy. They have tried to make an opera house, a concert hall and a convention room, and, consequently, have produced a building which is neither fish, flesh, nor fowl."

"What do you mean?" asked Florence.

"I mean that as an opera house it is a woful failure. They have shoved two tiers of boxes off at the sides and have given the entire house up to seats; they have put in a hideous organ where the proscenium boxes ought to be, and have invented all manner of machines for lowering the roof and shutting off the galleries; and as for those miserable little columns holding up that balcony, they are simply ridiculous."

"Marion very seldom admires home productions," Roswell Sanderson interposed.

"That is just the trouble," added Florence. "For my part I admire the progressive spirit which prompted the architect to depart from conventional ideas. If there are no boxes at the back, every one can see and hear, and I think that mass of people rising gently from the stage one of the most superb sights one could wish to see. The effects of the Paris and Vienna opera houses are not to be compared to it."

"Don't be so disagreeably contradictory to all I say," retorted Marion.

"I sha'n't for the present, dear, because I wish to hear some of that glorious music. You must not take what I say seriously."

Then they were silent, for, unconsciously, they were brought under the spell of the great tenor's art.

"What a divine voice that man has," said Florence, as the curtain slowly fell after the first act. "I fairly held my breath during that high C. Mr. Sedger, please applaud, and help bring him out. There he comes! Bravo, bravo, Tamagno!"

"I did the best I could, Miss Moreland," Walter Sedger said, after the applause of two recalls had died away. "But do you really enjoy this music so much? For my part I prefer opera-bouffe."

"I admire your frankness, Mr. Sedger," she replied. "There are so many people who adore Wagner because he is the fashion, and sneer at Verdi and the Italian school, when, if the truth were known, they have not the slightest conception of the good qualities of either. For my part I like any music from a hurdy-gurdy up, though an extended term of suffering under a German professor has finally produced a taste for such music as Verdi has given us in 'Otello', which seems to me quite as remarkable as some of Wagner's masterpieces."

"Well, I am glad you enjoy it, Miss Moreland, but I fear my education did not extend beyond the 'Mikado' and 'Ermine'; so when it comes to grand opera I must confess my pleasure is confined to the entre acte. I love to see the people, and if it were not for being rude I think I should be tempted to run down to the club while the curtain is up."

"You have my permission, Mr. Sedger, but tell me who is that good-looking man with Mr. Wainwright, coming down this way?"

"He is a New Yorker; Duncan Grahame is his name. I met him at the club this afternoon."

"What is he doing here? One always seems to ask what a stranger is doing in Chicago: I don't know why, I am sure."

"He is out here on business in connection with an elevator trust. He seems to be a capital fellow, and, as he is a member of the Staten Club, I suppose he needs no further patent of respectability. But here he comes, so you can judge of him for yourself."

The two men of whom they were speaking entered the box. Harold Wainwright spoke to the ladies and introduced his friend. Mrs. Sanderson offered Duncan a seat beside her and said: "I have heard of you quite frequently, Mr. Grahame, from a friend in New York, Miss Sibyl Wright, and I think you should be grateful for having such an enthusiastic admirer."

"Doubly so considering that she is a woman and it was to you she spoke. I also have heard of you from scores of people in the East, and I made Wainwright introduce me at the first opportunity. I arrived only this morning, and I assure you I am quite without a guiding hand."

"You make me smile and frown by turns," she replied. "I was tempted to feel flattered at the first part of your speech, but if it is a question of any shade in the desert, I shall not feel strongly inclined to offer you my protection in the Chicago wilderness."

"I think it would be advisable to interpret my speech as a compliment, as I seldom make them."

"Really, Mr. Grahame, I am tempted to call you rude."

"It is not rudeness but frankness, I assure you, and I spoke the truth. I have really been most anxious to meet you, and now that my desire has been gratified I trust you will not be so cruel as to let the frown remain. There goes the curtain. I am going to beg permission to return after the next act."

"You deserve punishment for your rudeness, so I refuse to grant it. As a penance for your offense I shall expect you to remain where you are during this entire act and devote your energies to amusing me."

"I suppose I must submit, but please talk to me, as I am not bold and feel sure that your friend is a musical fiend who is quite prepared to cast furious glances at me should I be audacious enough to speak above a whisper."

"I see you are an analyst of character."

"Rather more of a synthesist, I imagine. I collect what both enemies and friends say of an individual and then build his character from those materials."

"How horrible! I trust you will never try your method on me."

"I have done so already."

"You wretch! What do you mean?"

"I mean that I have heard considerable about you in New York, and that I dined with six men at the City Club this evening. You were the one person in Chicago I was most desirous of meeting, so I managed to collect some most useful materials from which I have built my estimate of your character."

"I must call that the boldest piece of assurance I ever heard of."

"Why any more so than for me to judge you by my own impressions? My method is more judicial. As in a court of law, I hear both sides of a case, and do not permit myself to be biased by personal charms."

"You are a clever pleader. I feel tempted to throw myself on the mercy of the court and receive its verdict."

"Before the verdict can be given the court must be cleared of reporters; as that seems impracticable, sentence must be deferred."

"Is it then so horrible? If so, I shall feel tempted to 'jump bail'."

"I think you have nothing to fear; but how did you acquire such a knowledge of the law?"

"At one time I had a passion for reading accounts of trials, and I even went with a party to see the Anarchists when they were on trial."

"What a morbid curiosity!"

"Another impertinence."

"If it is so considered, I humbly ask pardon, and meanwhile I move that the court take a recess which shall be employed in instructing me in the intricacies of Chicago society."

"I see you want more material with which to construct characters; if so, we had far better listen to the opera."

"O, bother the opera! It is vulgar to listen to an opera; it shows a lack of conversational powers. Don't you think so?"

"One can easily see that you came from New York, and, like all New York men, I suppose you expect to be pampered."

"Of course I expect it, so please tell me about those people in the opposite boxes. You need not fear to speak the truth, as I am an entire stranger."

"If I do, as a friend I shall expect you to let my opinions go no further."

"Cela va sans dire."

"You must first understand, then, that every man here has an employment. We have absolutely no 'unemployed rich'."

"Idleness must be at a premium."

"On the contrary it is tabooed. However, though we are all in trade we have distinctions as intricate as the most ancient aristocracy."

"How so?"

"In the peculiar meshes from which society is woven. For example: a wholesale dry-goods merchant is an aristocrat, a retailer a plebeian; a hotel keeper may be a lord, a restaurant keeper a commoner; a car builder is a prince, a carriage builder a burgher; a brewer may be a count, a beer seller a churl; and so on, although even if a member of a certain trade is in society, his confrÈres may be without the pale."

"Much the same as in New York, only there hotels and dry goods are commoners, while tobacco and skins are lords."

"Yes, but at least society is older there. The skins have been buried for a generation or two."

"In some cases, yes, but in others they are still uncured. I am a working man myself, and I must defend my class."

"But surely you have respect for established institutions."

"Yes, but not for dead ancestors. Suppose I search through the dusty archives of the Herald's College for a drop of Norman blood; I find that it was spilt on Saxon land by some hireling freebooter, or landgrabber, who followed at the heels of a conscienceless adventurer."

"You are republican enough to please the taste of my friend, Miss Moreland."

"I fear you misunderstand me. I am not patriotic, or republican, or anything else, for that matter."

"Except the incarnation of contrariety."

"I hate polemics, so I will cry touchÉ as one does in fencing after a thrust, and end the contest."

"You mean you would rather thrust than parry. You men are all alike. You told the truth when you expressed a fondness for being pampered, and, as it is the duty of our sex to be compliant, I await your pleasure."

"If I am to be so indulged, I confess to feeling a craving to hear the promised lecture about those people across the way."

"I would willingly comply but that falling curtain says it must again be deferred. On second thought, perhaps it would be better to give you an object lesson, so if you will come and see me to-morrow about five, I will take you to a tea where you may meet them all and judge for yourself."

"I see you mean to prevent my favorite method of character study. I fear you will succeed, as the enticing preventive you suggest cannot possibly fail to be effectual. I willingly submit to your cure and will come to you at the appointed hour."

The fall of the act drop was followed by a confused fluttering of dresses and hum of voices; people stretched and rose, talked, or wandered toward the foyer, while hundreds of glasses were leveled at the boxes, and every one of mark or notoriety was scrutinized by hundreds of eyes and criticised by hundreds of tongues. Society was there paraded in two rows of little pens, labeled and ticketed at so many millions per head, to be gazed upon by the curious and envious of that great throng. Society was the operatic side-show, and society paid dearly for the privilege of being seen.

"Do you like to be gazed at by a crowd, Mr. Grahame?" said Florence, after a momentary silence.

"Yes, I think I do," he replied. "It makes one feel so superior to be up above, looking down on the 'madding crowd'."

"Do you think so? I always feel like a caged animal at a menagerie, where each one who pays the admission fee can gratify the curiosity he has about me, and poke me with his umbrella if he does not like my looks."

"How absurd; but I understand you are democratic in your feelings and object to class distinctions."

"Not in the least; on the contrary I believe in them. Nature herself has decreed that no two creatures can be equal. What I object to are inflated distinctions which rest on no foundation, and collapse completely when pricked by sound opinion."

"Miss Moreland believes in an aristocracy of merit," interposed Harold Wainwright.

"Yes," replied Florence, "but where is it to be found?"

"Not in a republic," retorted Duncan. "A democracy is a breeding ground of plutocrats."

"Perhaps, when its Government discourages every intellectual pursuit," replied Wainwright. He felt strongly the ungratefulness of republics, as his father had been a Federal judge on a miserly salary, with no pension after years of faithful service.

"I quite agree with you, Harold," replied Florence, "and I only wish I were a man."

"Why?" interposed Mrs. Sanderson, who had just finished interchanging polite platitudes with Walter Sedger.

"So that I might express my views about the evils of our political system."

"And be called by that expressive word which is not in the dictionary, 'a crank'," said Duncan ironically. "That is the reward of a reformer."

"John Bright and Wendell Phillips were both 'cranks' in their day," was the reply, "but I would not object to their reputation. By the way, here comes a 'crank' whom I almost love," she added, as a stout, kindly faced, elderly man, whose features wore the sweet expression of earnest and well guided intelligence, approached the box.

"Who is he?" asked Duncan, following her eyes.

"Dr. Maccanfrae, physician and philanthropist, missionary and moralist, and the dearest man in the world, besides," she replied. "He does more good in a day than twenty Poor Boards do in a week, and has more genuine Christian charity in his soul than a score of average parsons, although he is an evolutionist and a pantheist combined."

"A most flattering description," said Duncan. "I hope he deserves such adulation."

"He certainly merits it all," added Wainwright.

Dr. Maccanfrae entered the box and Walter Sedger improved the opportunity to slip away and visit some friends. The Doctor spoke to Mrs. Sanderson, then moved toward the corner occupied by Florence Moreland, while Duncan dropped quietly into the seat left vacant by Mr. Sedger.

"What can bring so industrious a man as Dr. Maccanfrae to the opera?" said Florence as the Doctor took the seat beside her.

"The opera itself, Miss Florence. I am devoted to music and never lose an opportunity of hearing it well rendered. Isn't Tamagno doing grandly to-night?"

Her reply was interrupted by the appearance of a tall, plainly dressed woman, who, pencil and paper in hand, entered the box door. Her face was refined, though careworn, and bore the mark of better days. She hesitated for a moment, as though realizing fully her intrusive calling, then advanced toward Duncan. "May I ask you, sir, to give the names of your party for the Morning Stentor?" she finally said.

"What does she mean?" said Duncan, turning to Mrs. Sanderson for an explanation.

"It is one of the peculiarities of Chicago life," she replied. "It is for to-morrow's society column."

"And do you give them the information?" he asked.

"O, yes, it is better to have it right, as they publish it anyway, right or wrong," she replied, and then she told the reporter the names.

"Might I trouble you to describe your dress?" was the next question asked. "I am sorry to be so intrusive, but it is the city editor's orders, and we have to do the best we can."

"You are a woman, and understand such matters, so I think you had better do that yourself," Mrs. Sanderson replied.

The reporter thanked her and withdrew. When she had gone Duncan said wonderingly: "We have society reporters in New York, but they never go quite so far as to ask one to describe oneself. Who reads such particulars anyway?"

"Ask Dr. Maccanfrae, he is wiser than I," she replied.

"Dr. Maccanfrae, who should you say read the society columns of the newspapers?" he asked.

"People who expect to find their names in print, and people who think their names ought to be in print, to say nothing of those who read society columns, as they do society scandals, in order to get a reflection of the tinsel and tarnish of an unknown world."

"That must include a great portion of newspaper readers," replied Duncan.

"Precisely; that is why society scandals and fashions occupy so large a portion of our papers," the Doctor replied. "But there comes the conductor, so I must get back to my place."

"Won't you remain here, Doctor?" said Mrs. Sanderson.

"No, I thank you. I only came in to pay my respects, and, as I have a musical friend with me, I must get back to him."

The Doctor hurried away and the little man away down in front lifted his baton. Ninety musicians watched the beat of the first bar, and, as the baton fell, sixty bows moved in unison, and trumpets, horns, trombones, and reeds, added their strains, while the act drop slowly rose disclosing the great stage, gorgeously set as Otello's audience-chamber.

"I must tell you an amusing tale about 'Otello,'" whispered Mrs. Sanderson to Duncan Grahame. "I was in Rome when the opera was brought out there, and went with the American minister and his wife. Revere was their name and they came from Tallahassee. He had been a congressman, but she had never been away from home until she went as the wife of our representative in Austria, so you can imagine her ignorance of the world. She watched the opera quietly until she noticed that the black Otello bore some relation to the white Desdemona. That made her hem and fidget, but when Otello embraced his wife, she put up her fan in disgust, and said indignantly to me: 'How outrageous! I assure you such conduct would not be tolerated in Tallahassee.'"

Grahame laughed, and then they listened to the grand music of Verdi for a while, but it was not the opera which inspired their interest, for the subtle spell of similarity seemed to arouse the sympathy of kindred taste. Bright phrases and pleasing words flashed between them, and quickly another act passed. Again the people rose and talked, again visitors came to the box and uttered conventional insipidities. Finally Roswell Sanderson himself returned. He had passed the evening in the manager's office with some friends, but his wife did not even express a curiosity to know it. The curtain rose on the last act. "Come," said Wainwright to Duncan, "we must go back to our seats. Good-night, Mrs. Sanderson." "Good-night, Mr. Grahame." "A demain," said Duncan, and he was off. Another act of the opera was rendered, then the great house was slowly emptied, and hundreds of carriages bore their occupants away. The lights went out, the weary artists hurried home, the Auditorium was left cold, silent and deserted.