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nor was she permitted to drink for at least an hour after having danced. He had a theory that such mild excesses were injurious to the muscles.

When she had finished the coffee he told her to put on her bonnet and come down to the Opera-House.

"First of all you shall familiarize yourself with your surroundings. Then you shall practise. But let me look at you—yes, it is in good taste."

He alluded to the new poke-bonnet, bought, after much deliberation, just before their departure; it was coquettish, and wreathed with yellow rosebuds. She wore mittens, and gave him her arm; he himself was dressed in his handsome best. Never before had they walked out together in this manner, and their new formality effected a slight alteration in their relations together; both were a trifle constrained.

"There," he said, "is the famous school where you might at this moment be learning to become a dancer."

"It looks like a prison. I prefer your home, and Bruges."

She gave his arm a little squeeze of affection.

Once inside the Scala all self-possession died away, and she became so frightened, so miserably apprehensive, that her legs trembled and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth. The colossal size and dignity of the famous theater, its splendid gilt and chandeliers, the tiers and tiers of red-draped boxes, its vast bleak stage, all its pomp and majesty, combined to make her feel more insignificant, more wretchedly incompetent, than she could ever have believed possible.

She waited, shivering, while Rosing disco ver ed where she was to change.

"Make haste, my child, and then come back here. We must get in some practise."

She was conducted through labyrinths of dirty drafty