'But why do you put on so much?' Margaret asked in wonder.

'My dear, I'm an actress,' said Madame Bonanni. 'I'm not ashamed of my

profession! If I didn't paint, people would say I was trying to pass

myself off for a lady! Besides, now that I have cried, nothing but

powder will hide it. Look at my nose, my dear--just look at my nose!

Little Miss Donne'--she turned upon Margaret with sudden, tragic

energy--'don't ever let that wretched boy know that I cried about him!

Eh? Never! Promise you won't!' 'No, indeed! You may trust me. Why should I tell?' 'But it doesn't matter. Tell him if you like. I don't care. My life is

over now, and there is no reason why I should care about anything, is

there?' 'What do you mean by saying that your life is over?' Margaret asked.

Madame Bonanni's head fell upon the edge of the table and she looked at

herself in the glass for some moments before she answered.

'I have left the stage,' she said, very quietly.

'Left the stage? For good?' Margaret was amazed.

'Yes. I was not going to have any farewells or last appearances. Those

things are only done to make money. Schreiermeyer was very nice about

it. He agreed to cancel the rest of my engagements in a friendly way.' 'But why? Why have you done it?' asked Margaret, still bewildered by

the news.

Madame Bonanni had done one cheek and half the other. She leaned back

in the comfortable chair before the glass and looked at herself again,

not at all at the effect of her work, but at her eyes, as if she were

searching for something.

'There is not room for you and me,' she said, presently.

'I don't understand,' Margaret answered. 'Not room? Where?' 'On the stage. I have been the great lyric soprano a long time. Next

month you will be the great lyric soprano--there is not room----' 'Nonsense!' Margaret broke in. 'I shall never be what you are----' 'Not what I was, perhaps, because this is another age. Taste and

teaching and the art itself--all have changed. But you are young,

fresh, untouched, unheard--all, you have it all, as I had once. You are

not the artist I am, but you will be one day, and meanwhile you have

all I have no more. If I had stayed on the stage, we should have been

rivals next season. They would have said: "Cordova has a better voice,

but Bonanni is still the greater artist." Do you see?' 'Yes. And why should you not be pleased at that?' asked Margaret. 'Or

why should not I be quite satisfied, and more than satisfied?' 'I wasn't thinking of us,' said Madame Bonanni, looking up to

Margaret's face with an expression that was almost beautiful, in spite

of the daubs of paint and the disarranged hair. 'I was thinking of

him.' Margaret began to guess, and her lip quivered a moment, for she was

touched.




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