bloomed out one morning with gleaming white
posters on which two names were impressively
printed in blue Gothic letters: the name of an
actress of whom I had often heard, and the
name "Camille."

I called at the Raleigh Block for Lena on
Saturday evening, and we walked down to
the theater. The weather was warm and
sultry and put us both in a holiday humor. We
arrived early, because Lena liked to watch the
people come in. There was a note on the pro-
gramme, saying that the "incidental music"
would be from the opera "Traviata," which
was made from the same story as the play.
We had neither of us read the play, and we
did not know what it was about -- though
I seemed to remember having heard it was a
piece in which great actresses shone. "The
Count of Monte Cristo," which I had seen
James O'Neill play that winter, was by the
only Alexandre Dumas I knew. This play,
I saw, was by his son, and I expected a family
resemblance. A couple of jack-rabbits, run
in off the prairie, could not have been more
innocent of what awaited them than were
Lena and I.

Our excitement began with the rise of the

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v?