I am eight years older now. It had never occurred to me that I am

advancing in life and experience until, in setting myself to recall

the various details of the affair, I suddenly remembered my timid

confusion before the haughty mien of the clerk at Keith Prowse's.

I had asked him: "Have you any amphitheatre seats for the Opera to-night?"

He did not reply. He merely put his lips together and waved his hand

slowly from side to side.

Not perceiving, in my simplicity, that he was thus expressing a

sublime pity for the ignorance which my demand implied, I innocently

proceeded: "Nor balcony?"

This time he condescended to speak.

"Noth--ing, sir."

Then I understood that what he meant was: "Poor fool! why don't you

ask for the moon?"

I blushed. Yes, I blushed before the clerk at Keith Prowse's, and

turned to leave the shop. I suppose he thought that as a Christian it

was his duty to enlighten my pitiable darkness.

"It's the first Rosa night to-night," he said with august affability.

"I had a couple of stalls this morning, but I've just sold them over

the telephone for six pound ten."

He smiled. His smile crushed me. I know better now. I know that clerks

in box-offices, with their correct neckties and their air of

continually doing wonders over the telephone, are not, after all, the

grand masters of the operatic world. I know that that manner of theirs

is merely a part of their attire, like their cravats; that they are

not really responsible for the popularity of great sopranos; and that

they probably go home at nights to Fulham by the white omnibus, or to

Hammersmith by the red one--and not in broughams.

"I see," I observed, carrying my crushed remains out into the street.

Impossible to conceal the fact that I had recently arrived from

Edinburgh as raw as a ploughboy!

If you had seen me standing irresolute on the pavement, tapping my

stick of Irish bog-oak idly against the curbstone, you would have

seen a slim youth, rather nattily dressed (I think), with a shadow of

brown on his upper lip, and a curl escaping from under his hat, and

the hat just a little towards the back of his head, and a pretty good

chin, and the pride of life in his ingenuous eye. Quite unaware that

he was immature! Quite unaware that the supple curves of his limbs had

an almost feminine grace that made older fellows feel paternal! Quite

unaware that he had everything to learn, and that all his troubles lay

before him! Actually fancying himself a man because he had just taken

his medical degree....

The June sun shone gently radiant in a blue sky, and above the roofs

milky-bosomed clouds were floating in a light wind. The town was

bright, fresh, alert, as London can be during the season, and the

joyousness of the busy streets echoed the joyousness of my heart (for

I had already, with the elasticity of my years, recovered from the

reverse inflicted on me by Keith Prowse's clerk). On the opposite side

of the street were the rich premises of a well-known theatrical club,

whose weekly entertainments had recently acquired fame. I was, I

recollect, proud of knowing the identity of the building--it was one

of the few things I did know in London--and I was observing with

interest the wondrous livery of the two menials motionless behind the

glass of its portals, when a tandem equipage drew up in front of the

pile, and the menials darted out, in their white gloves, to prove that

they were alive and to justify their existence.




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