Sir Cyril had small eyes, and small features generally, including

rather a narrow forehead. His nostrils, however, were well curved, and

his thin, straight lips and square chin showed the stiffest

determination. He looked fatigued, weary, and harassed; yet it did not

appear that he complained of his lot; rather accepted it with sardonic

humor. The cares of an opera season and of three other simultaneous

managements weighed on him ponderously, but he supported the burden

with stoicism.

"What is the matter with Alresca to-night?" Sullivan asked. "Suffering

the pangs of jealousy, I suppose."

"Alresca," Sir Cyril replied, "is the greatest tenor living, and

to-night he sings like a variety comedian. But it is not jealousy.

There is one thing about Alresca that makes me sometimes think he is

not an artist at all--he is incapable of being jealous. I have known

hundreds of singers, and he is the one solitary bird among them of

that plumage. No, it is not jealousy."

"Then what is it?"

"I wish I knew. He asked me to go and dine with him this afternoon.

You know he dines at four o'clock. Of course, I went. What do you

think he wanted me to do? He actually suggested that I should change

the bill to-night! That showed me that something really was the

matter, because he's the most modest and courteous man I have ever

known, and he has a horror of disappointing the public. I asked him if

he was hoarse. No. I asked him if he felt ill. No. But he was

extremely depressed.

"'I'm quite well,' he said, 'and yet--' Then he stopped. 'And yet

what?' It seemed as if I couldn't drag it out of him. Then all of a

sudden he told me. 'My dear Smart,' he said, 'there is a misfortune

coming to me. I feel it.' That's just what he said--'There's a

misfortune coming to me. I feel it.' He's superstitious. They all are.

Naturally, I set to work to soothe him. I did what I could. I talked

about his liver in the usual way. But it had less than the usual

effect. However, I persuaded him not to force me to change the bill."

Mrs. Sullivan struck into the conversation.

"He isn't in love with Rosa, is he?" she demanded brusquely.

"In love with Rosa? Of course he isn't, my pet!" said Sullivan.

The wife glared at her husband as if angry, and Sullivan made a comic

gesture of despair with his hands.

"Is he?" Mrs. Sullivan persisted, waiting for Smart's reply.

"I never thought of that," said Sir Cyril simply. "No; I should say

not, decidedly not.... He may be, after all. I don't know. But if

he were, that oughtn't to depress him. Even Rosa ought to be flattered

by the admiration of a man like Alresca. Besides, so far as I know,

they've seen very little of each other. They're too expensive to sing

together often. There's only myself and Conried of New York who would

dream of putting them in the same bill. I should say they hadn't sung

together more than two or three times since the death of Lord

Clarenceux; so, even if he has been making love to her, she's scarcely

had time to refuse him--eh?"




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