My Splendid Cousin

I am eight years older now. It had never occurred to me that I am
advancing in life and experience until, in setting myself to recall
the various details of the affair, I suddenly remembered my timid
confusion before the haughty mien of the clerk at Keith Prowse's.

I had asked him: "Have you any amphitheatre seats for the Opera to-night?"

He did not reply. He merely put his lips together and waved his hand
slowly from side to side.

Not perceiving, in my simplicity, that he was thus expressing a
sublime pity for the ignorance which my demand implied, I innocently
proceeded: "Nor balcony?"

This time he condescended to speak.

"Noth--ing, sir."

Then I understood that what he meant was: "Poor fool! why don't you
ask for the moon?"

I blushed. Yes, I blushed before the clerk at Keith Prowse's, and
turned to leave the shop. I suppose he thought that as a Christian it
was his duty to enlighten my pitiable darkness.

"It's the first Rosa night to-night," he said with august affability.
"I had a couple of stalls this morning, but I've just sold them over
the telephone for six pound ten."

He smiled. His smile crushed me. I know better now. I know that clerks
in box-offices, with their correct neckties and their air of
continually doing wonders over the telephone, are not, after all, the
grand masters of the operatic world. I know that that manner of theirs
is merely a part of their attire, like their cravats; that they are
not really responsible for the popularity of great sopranos; and that
they probably go home at nights to Fulham by the white omnibus, or to
Hammersmith by the red one--and not in broughams.