Her hair was becomingly untidy on her low brow, her dark blue eyes wandered and got excited, her nervous mouth twitched.

Her high-pitched, sing-song voice and her hurried laugh could be heard in the theatre.

She twisted a beautiful little fan that a dead artist had given her.
Not being fashionable, they were in the box when the overture began.

The opera was Verdi--_Aida_.

If it is impossible to be in an important box at the opera without experiencing the strange intoxication of social pre-eminence, it is just as impossible to be there without some feeling of horror at the sight the stage presents.
Josephine leaned her elbow and looked down: she knew how arresting that proud, rather stiff bend of her head was.