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I I don't know, Elise answered, looking up with terror-stricken eyes. 'I'm just overwrought. That's all. 'You poor dear! said Lady Erskin. 'You shouldn't take the opera so seriously. After all, it didn't really happen and I have no doubt in real life the tenor is quite a model husband, with at least ten children.
Our author was soon removed from his command as captain of the guard, which was bestowed upon Sir Thomas Erskin, his majesty's favourite as well as countryman , the predecessor to the earl of Mar, whose actions, performed in the year 1715, are recent in every one's memory.
Lady Erskin herself was a plump little miniature who was rather exercised over the dilemma of whether to display a huge feathery fan and obliterate herself, or to sacrifice the fan to the glory of being stared at by common people. With her was her sister, the wife of a country rector, who assumed such an elaborate air of ennui that any one could have told it was her first time in a box.
The opera was over, and there was a storm of applause that developed into an ovation. 'The tenor isn't really handsome, after all, said Lady Erskin. 'I think the women of to-day are shameless, said the rector's wife, casting a last indignant glance at the box across the theatre. 'I feel a perfect rag, said Lady Erskin's daughter. 'Good heavens! Elise, what's the matter? 'Nothing.
Softly the humming of the priests at worship ceases, and the curtain descends on what must always remain a masterpiece of delicate pathos a story that will never lose its appeal while woman's trust in man lends its charm to drab existence. 'The tenor didn't come in at all in that act, said Lady Erskin.
At the conclusion of the act, where the orchestra adds its overpowering tour de force to the singers', the audience burst into applause that lasted for several minutes. It was the spontaneous gratitude of hundreds of war-tired souls whose bonds had been relaxed for an hour by the magic touch of music. 'Do you think the tenor is good-looking? asked Lady Erskin of no one in particular.
On an April evening, fifteen months later, a certain liveliness could have been noted in the vicinity of Drury Lane Theatre. The occasion was another season of opera in English, and as the offering for the night was Madam Butterfly, the usual heterogeneous fraternity of Puccini-worshippers were gathering in large numbers. In one of the upper boxes Lady Erskin had a small unescorted party.
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