'No. It is an absurd name for the stage, my dear. All the people would

make jokes about it. Of course you must be either Italian, or French,

or German, or Hungarian, or Spanish. There is no great Italian soprano

just now. I advise you to be an Italian. You are Signorina--Signorina

what? Logotheti, do make haste! You know Italian.' 'May I ask where you were born, Miss Donne?' inquired Logotheti.

'In Oxford. But what has that to do with it?' 'Translate into Italian: ox, "bove," ford, "guado." No, that won't do' 'Certainly not!' cried Madame Bonanni. 'Guado--guano! Fancy! Try again.

Think of a pretty Italian name. It must be very easy! Take an

historical name, the name of a great family. Those people never

object.' 'Cordova is a fine name,' observed Logotheti. 'She may just as well be

Spanish, after all. Margarita da Cordova. That sounds rather well.' 'Yes. Do you like it, my dear?' asked Madame Bonanni.

'But I don't know a word of Spanish----' 'What in the world has that to do with it? It is a good name. You may

have your Chartreuse, Logotheti. Margarita da Cordova, the great

Spanish soprano! Your health! You were born in the little town of

Boveguado in Andalusia.' 'Your father was the famous contrabandier Ramon da Cordova, who sang

like an angel and played the guitar better than any one in Spain.' 'Was there ever such a man?' 'No, of course not! And besides, he was stabbed in a love affair when

you were a baby, so that it does not matter. You ought to be able to

make something out of that for the papers, Logotheti. Carmen, don't you

know? Heavens, how romantic!' Margaret had a vague idea that she was dreaming, that Madame Bonanni

and Logotheti were not real people, and that she was going to waken in

a few minutes. The heavy, middle-aged woman with the good-natured face

and the painted cheeks could not possibly be the tragic Juliet, the

terrible Tosca, the poor, mad, fluttering Lucia, whose marvellous voice

had so often thrilled the young girl to the heart, in Paris and in

London. It was either a dream or a cruel deception. Her own words

sounded far away and unsteady when she was at last allowed to speak.

'I am sure I cannot sing in public in less than a year,' she said. 'You

are very kind, but you are exaggerating my talent. I could never get

through the whole opera well enough.' Madame Bonanni looked at her curiously for a moment, not at all certain

that she was in earnest; but she saw that Margaret meant what she said.

There was no mistaking the troubled look in the girl's eyes.




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