THE SONG OF THE LARK
touched Archie's arm. "You remember, Dr. Archie, how my mother always wore her hair, parted in the middle and done low on her neck behind, so you got the shape of her head and such a calm, white forehead? I wear mine like that for Fricka. A little more coronet effect, built up a little higher at the sides, but the idea 's the same. I think you 'll notice it." She turned to Ottenburg reproachfully: "It 's noble music, Fred, from the first measure. There 's nothing lovelier than the wonniger Hausrath. It 's all such comprehensive sort of music—fateful. Of course, Fricka knows," Thea ended quietly.
Fred sighed. "There, you 've spoiled my itinerary. Now I 'll have to come back, of course. Archie, you 'd better get busy about seats to-morrow."
"I can get you box seats, somewhere. I know nobody here, and I never ask for any." Thea began hunting among her wraps. "Oh, how funny! I 've only these short woolen gloves, and no sleeves. Put on my coat first. Those English people can't make out where you got your lady, she 's so made up of contradictions." She rose laughing and plunged her arms into the coat Dr. Archie held for her. As she settled herself into it and buttoned it under her chin, she gave him an old signal with her eyelid. "I 'd like to sing another part to-night. This is the sort of evening I fancy, when there 's something to do. Let me see: I have to sing in 'Trovatore' Wednesday night, and there are rehearsals for the 'Ring' every day this week. Consider me dead until Saturday, Dr. Archie. I invite you both to dine with me on Saturday night, the day after 'Rheingold.' And Fred must leave early, for I want to talk to you alone. You 've been here nearly a week, and I have n't had a serious word with you. Tak for mad, Fred, as the Norwegians say."
