He enjoyed the opera, the color and music,
the propinquity of Kitty. Sometimes their shoulders touched; the
indefinable perfume of her hair thrilled him.
Kitty had seen all these things so many times that she no longer
experienced enthusiasm; but his was so genuine, so un-English, that she
found it impossible to escape the contagion. She did not bubble over,
however; on the contrary, she sat through the performance strangely
subdued, dimly alarmed over what she had done.
As they were leaving the lobby of the theater, a man bumped against
Thomas, quite accidentally.
"I beg your pardon!" said the stranger, politely raising his hat and
passing on.
[Illustration: "I beg your pardon!" said the stranger.]
Thomas' hand went clumsily to his own hat, which he fumbled and dropped
and ran after frantically across the mosaic flooring.
A ghost; yes, sir, Thomas had seen a ghost.
CHAPTER XII
I left Thomas scrambling about the mosaic lobby of the theater for his
opera-hat. When he recovered it, it resembled one of those accordions
upon which vaudeville artists play Mendelssohn's Wedding March and the
latest ragtime (by request).
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