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LIVING TWENTY-FIVE HOURS A DAY

If one elects to live well out in the country, going to the opera presents serious difficulties. One can't very well go home to dress and go in town again; and if one decides to stay in town at a hotel, there is a suitcase to be packed in the morning - an operation the result of which I abhor, as I always forget something essential. On one occasion, some years ago, I, like a dutiful husband, had agreed to go to the opera, and having packed my bag and sent it to my hotel, dismissed from my mind the details of my toilet, until I came to dress in the evening; when I discovered to my horror that I had absentmindedly packed a colored negligé shirt instead of the white, hard-boiled article which custom has decreed for such occasions, and that several other little essentials were missing. I was quite undressed when I made this discovery; it was already late, and my temper, never absolutely flawless on opera nights, was not improved by my wife's observation that we would surely miss the overture. I thought it altogether likely, and said sobriefly.

It was, as I remember, my Lord Chesterfield who observed that when one goes to the opera one should leave one's mind at home; I had gone his Lordship one better, I had left practically everything at home,

and I heartily wished that I was at home, too. I shall not, I think, be accused of misstatement when I say that it is altogether probable that most married men, if they could be excused from escorting their wives to the opera, would cheerfully make a substantial contribution to any worthy -or even unworthycharity.

Thoughts such as these, if thoughts they may be called, surged through my head, as I rapidly dressed and prepared to dash through the streets in search of any "gents' furnishing goods" shop that might chance to be open at that hour. I needed such articles of commerce as would enable me to make myself presentable at the opera, and I needed them at once. It was raining, and as I dashed up one street and down another, I discovered that the difference between a raised umbrella and a parachute is negligible; so I closed mine, with the result that I was thoroughly drenched before I had secured what I needed. I have the best of wives, but truth compels me to say that when, upon my return, she greeted me with the remark that what she wanted especially to hear was the overture and that we would certainly be late, I almost I say I almost -lost my temper.

Is it necessary for me to remark that we do not go to the opera frequently? It was my wife's evening, not mine; and as I sat on the side of a bed, eating a sandwich and struggling to insert square shirt pegs in round holes, to the gently sustained motif that we would surely miss the overture, I thought of home, of my books, of a fire of logs crackling, of my pipe, and

I wondered who it was who said, when anything untoward happened, "All this could have been avoided if I had staid at home."

Finally, after doing up my wife's back,-"hooking them in the lace," — I finished my own unsatisfactory toilet, feeling, and doubtless looking, very much as Joe Gargery did when he went to see Miss Havisham. But at last we were ready, and we descended to the lobby of our hotel, having in the confusion quite overlooked the fact that we should require a taxi. It was still raining, and not a taxi or other conveyance was to be had! I was quite nonplussed for the moment, and felt deeply grieved when my wife remarked that it was hardly worth while now to leave the hotel we were so late that we should miss the overture anyway; to which I replied but never mind specifically what I said; it was to the effect that we would go to the opera or bust.

But how? Standing at the door of the hotel, I waited my chance, and finally a taxi arrived; but quite unexpectedly a man appeared from nowhere and was about to enter it, saying, as he did so, in a fine rolling English voice, "I wish to go to the opera house.'

There was no time to lose; quickly brushing the man aside, I called to my wife and passed her into the taxi, and then, turning to the stranger, I explained to him that we, too, were going to the opera and that he was to be our guest. I pushed the astonished man into the machine, told the driver to go like h (to drive rapidly), and entering myself,

pulled to the door and heaved a sigh of relief. We were off.

For a moment nothing was said. We were all more or less surprised to find ourselves together. I think I may say that my newly discovered friend was astonished. Something had to be said, and it was up to me to say it. "My name is Newton," I said; and gently waving toward Mrs. Newton a white-kidgloved hand, which in the darkness looked like a small ham, I explained that Mrs. Newton was very musical and was particularly anxious to hear the overture of the opera, and that I was unavoidably late. I added that I hoped he would forgive my rudeness; then, remembering that I was speaking to an English gentleman who probably thought me mad, I inquired if he were not a stranger in Philadelphia.

"Yes," he replied; "I only arrived in the city this evening."

"And have you friends here?" I asked.

His reply almost disconcerted me: "Present company excepted, none."

“Oh, come now," I said; "I took you for an Englishman, but no Englishman could possibly make so graceful a speech on such short notice. You must be either Scotch or Irish; whenever one meets a particularly charming Englishman, he invariably turns out to be Scotch - or Irish."

"Well, the fact is, I'm Scotch," my friend replied; "my name is Craig, Frank Craig. I'm an artist."

"Don't apologize,” I said; "you are probably not a very great artist. I'm a business man, and not a

very great business man either; and as we are the only friends you have in the city, you shall have supper with us after the opera. Don't decline. I'm very much at home in our hotel, as perhaps you noticed. Ask for me at the door of the supper-room. Don't forget my name. Here we are at the opera house, in good time for the overture, after all."

And I passed my friend out of the taxi, and he, assuring me that he would join us at supper, went his way and we ours.

During the performance, which was miserable, I chuckled gently to myself, and wondered what my Scotch friend thought of the affair and whether he would keep his appointment. The opera was late, there was the usual delay in getting away, and it was almost midnight when the head waiter conducted my new-found guest to our table. Then for the first time we had a good look at each other, and told each other how funny it all was, and how unexpected and delightful. After an excellent supper and a bottle of champagne, followed by a fine brandy and cigars,for I determined to do the thing well,confidential. We talked of life and of travel, and finally, of course, about books and authors.

we grew

"Have you ever met Booth Tarkington?" my friend inquired. I had. Did I know him? I did not. Craig had been staying with him in Indianapolis. Had I ever heard of Arnold Bennett? I had. Did I care for his books? I did. He also had been staying with Booth Tarkington in Indianapolis; in fact, Bennett and he were traveling together at the pres