She peered
from the box and strove to interest herself in the huge crowd that
thronged the house, and in her own dignified and elevated position in it.
For Valentine had taken one of the big boxes next the stage on the
first tier, and Cuckoo had never been in such a situation before. She
could survey the endless rows of heads in the stalls with a completeness
of bird's-eye observation never previously attained. What multitudes
there were. Endless ranks of men, all staring in the same direction,
all smoking, all with handkerchiefs peeping out of their cuffs, and gold
rings on their little fingers. Some of them looked half asleep, others,
who had evidently been dining, threw themselves back in their stalls,
roaring with laughter, and leaning to tell each other stories that must
surely have teemed with wit. Most of them were young. But here and there
an elderly and lined figure-head appeared among them, a figure-head
that had faced many sorts of weather in many shifting days and nights,
and that must soon face eternity--instead of time. Yet at the gates of
death it still sipped its brandy and soda, smiled over a French song
with tired lips, and sat forward with a pale gleam dawning in its eyes
to reconnoitre the charms of a _ballet_.
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