McTaggart drew his chair forward from behind the curtain of the box and gazed out on the crowded Hippodrome.
Not a seat was vacant. For to-night a famous composer was conducting his masterpiece with a picked company brought over for a fleeting visit to England.
As he watched, the lights were lowered in the body of the hall and the beautiful overture began, stealing like a spirit of sun-lit shores across the artificially warm atmosphere. The curtain rolled up to disclose a narrowed stage and the cheap, garish scenery that seems a necessary adjunct to the opera in Italy.
McTaggart's eyes took it in with a careless glance, and returned to the other occupant of the box.
To-night Fantine seemed to acquire a new personality. An air faintly tragic and dignified hung over the pale face, and ev
