His smile broadened--this was so characteristic of New York in
the eighties. How different it had been; but it was no better, he added
silently, now.
It was mid-August, and the air floating in through an open door was
ladened with the richness of ultra-luxuriant vegetation, the persistent,
metallic whirring of locusts, the mechanical repetition of katydids. One
of the owls that inhabited the old willow tree before the house cried
softly.... How different! He straightened up from the book open on his
knees, and the glass fell with a small clatter over his formal, starched
linen, swinging for an instant on its narrow ribbon. The unwavering lamp
light was deflected in green points through the emeralds of his studs.
The thought of bygone, gala nights of opera fastened on him with a
peculiar significance--suddenly they seemed symbolic of his lost youth.
Such tides of impassioned song, such poignant, lyric passion, such
tragic sacrifice and death, were all in the extravagant key of youth.
The very convention of opera, the glorified unreality of its language,
the romantic impossibility of its colour, the sparkling dress like the
sparkling voices and blue gardens and gilded halls, were the authentic
expression of the resplendent vagaries of early years.
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