waist, and was composed of the most magnificent emeralds I ever saw. The blaze and glitter which filled the imperial box was something like what I used to read about in the fairy tales. The rest of the house, which had seemed magnificent a moment before, now looked quite plain in comparison.
I seem to deal in superlatives, but even with their aid I do scant justice to the scene. I was gazing in open wonder and admiration, actually dazed by the magnificence, when the familiar music of Faust broke upon my ear, and I turned to see Albani in the third act of that opera.
Sacha smiled upon us from a distance, and made his way slowly towards us. George had entered the box some time before, and, having bowed to us, leaned back against the wall and surveyed the house through his glass. It seemed to me that my interview with him must have been a dream. There was not a shadow of embarrassment is his manner, not a trace of consciousness.
While he still stood there, Sacha came in. I bowed very coldly, and turned my back on him. When he had gone away, Alice asked me, laughing,—
"Why did you snub the poor fellow like that?"
"Because I don't like him. I despise him."
"I would not," said George's voice behind me, most unexpectedly. "He is not worth it."
"Perhaps not," I responded, in some excitement; "but I cannot look upon people in that indifferent way."
