She lifted her chin defiantly and changed the subject. “What are we hearing tonight?”
“Otello.” He shrugged. “Not quite as cheerful an evening as I had hoped, though de Reszke is sure to be good.”
Holly turned to him, delighted. “But this is wonderful!” she exclaimed.
“I have always longed to hear one of Maestro Verdi’s operas! And they say this is among his greatest!”
He looked at her alertly. “Where do you come from, child? How is it that you know of Verdi, but have never heard even one of his operas? The old man’s written such a pile of them; they would seem unavoidable.”
“Where I come from—” stammered Holly, blushing a little as she tried to find words. “It’s very—very—forested, and there aren’t any opera houses.” She lifted her eyes to his and realized with surprise that he didn’t believe her and he didn’t care. His mouth was stretched into an odd smile.
He turned his head away and said, very softly, “Oh, how I am going to enjoy this evening.”
“And so am I,” said Holly.
It was all so grand. The humming crowd, the ladies like gauzy butterflies, the lavish golden ceiling where muses wafted on gilded clouds, the whole bubbling world of it entered her blood like champagne.
Catching sight of the most majestic of all the society queens, she leaned forward to touch Mr. Hartman’s arm. “Look at her! Is that a belt of diamonds?” she whispered. “She can’t possibly breathe!”
Secretively she looked in his direction, distracted by the sight of him removing a pair of opera glasses from the pocket of his evening jacket. He sat back in his seat, obviously prepared to enjoy the opera. She realized with relief and regret that he had not seen her. After a short internal struggle, she lifted her head.
Soon she had forgotten everything but the music. The story of Othello and Desdemona unfolded, and Holly was lost in the inexorable tide of the characters’ fates, watching with fascinated horror as the heart of Othello was dismantled by Iago for the sport of it. So intent was Holly upon the tragedy before her that the intermission, when it came, seemed a rude interruption. She looked around hazily, and Hunter Hartman, whose interest in the proceedings onstage appeared to be limited, smiled at her confusion.
“Do you care to take a turn in the lobby? Or shall I bring you an ice?”
“Oh no!” said Holly vehemently “I don’t want anything but for it to begin again! It’s wonderful! Aren’t the voices beautiful?”
“No. You are.”
She ignored him and stared at the dropped curtain. “I never imagined it would be so exciting,” she murmured. “It makes me shiver.” She held up a trembling hand.
Her relief, however, was short-lived; from then on the terrible descent of Othello was almost more than she could stand. When the villain ground the fallen hero under his heel, Holly had to tear her eyes away. She glanced at her boxmate. He was more absorbed in this spectacle than in any other the opera had provided, and he seemed to know the music well, for he swayed in time to Iago’s taunts.
The last mournful strains of song finished, and the house erupted into crashing applause. Holly, clapping fervently, stole another look at the nearby box. It was empty.
It was a small world, the one that glittered so brightly. The same elegant eomen and men who had occupied the boxes of the opera house now swept toward the cream and gold brocade seats of Delmonico’s. They stopped to chat here and there, leaning confidentially down to receive or dispense gossip, laughing in low voices, extending a well-kept hand in greeting.
