The foyer of the theatre was banked with flowers, and against a curtain of evergreens stood a high-pedestalled bust of the paternal Caesar, with whose side-whiskers a laurel crown comported itself as well as it could.
At the foot of the grand staircase leading to the boxes the manager stood in evening dress, receiving his friends and their felicitations upon the honor which the theatre was sure to do itself on an occasion so august.

The Marches were so cordial in their prophecies that the manager yielded to an artist's impulse and begged his fellow-artist to do him the pleasure of coming behind the scenes between the acts of the opera; he bowed a heart-felt regret to Mrs.March that he could not make the invitation include her, and hoped that she would not be too lonely while her husband was gone.
She explained that they had asked friends, and she should not be alone, and then he entreated March to bring any gentleman who was his guest with him.

On the way up to their box, she pressed his arm as she used in their young married days, and asked him if it was not perfect.

"I wish we were going to have it all to ourselves; no one else can appreciate the whole situation.

Do you think we have made a mistake in having the Triscoes ?" "We!" he retorted.