He smothered a laugh. She had never been to the opera before except as one of a congested mass of people in the cheaper seats, and with backs and heads and women’s hats for the frame of the spectacle; there was by contrast a fine large sense of space and ease in her present position. Melusine, intent on the luckless Kimble, did not care. She felt privileged above other women at parties, where she was on display as all the duchesses and queens looked upon her with envy as he was so clearly entranced by her in every way. “Your name, I believe, is——” “Pellissier,” Anna answered. “It’s his birthday.
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