He paused, as if inwardly working at the problem.

"Well, and how did you make it up?" Sullivan asked briskly.

(As for me, I felt as if I had come suddenly into the centre of the

great world.) "Oh, nothing happened for a time. She sang in Paris and America, and

took her proper place as the first soprano in the world. I did without

her, and managed very well. Then early this spring she sent her agent

to see me, and offered to sing ten times for three thousand pounds.

They can't keep away from London, you know. New York and Chicago are

all very well for money, but if they don't sing in London people ask

'em why. I wanted to jump at the offer, but I pretended not to be

eager. Up till then she had confined herself to French operas; so I

said that London wouldn't stand an exclusively French repertoire from

any one, and would she sing in 'Lohengrin.' She would. I suggested

that she should open with 'Lohengrin,' and she agreed. The price was

stiffish, but I didn't quarrel with that. I never drive bargains. She

is twenty-two now, or twenty-three; in a few more years she will want

five hundred pounds a night, and I shall have to pay it."

"And how did she meet you?"

"With just the same cold politeness. And I understand her less than

ever."

"She isn't English, I suppose?" I put in.

"English!" Sir Cyril ejaculated. "No one ever heard of a great English

soprano. Unless you count Australia as England, and Australia wouldn't

like that. No. That is another of her mysteries. No one knows where

she emerged from. She speaks English and French with absolute

perfection. Her Italian accent is beautiful. She talks German freely,

but badly. I have heard that she speaks perfect Flemish,--which is

curious,--but I do not know."

"Well," said Sullivan, nodding his head, "give me the theatrical as

opposed to the operatic star. The theatrical star's bad enough, and

mysterious enough, and awkward enough. But, thank goodness, she isn't

polite--at least, those at the Diana aren't. You can speak your mind

to 'em. And that reminds me, Smart, about that costume of Effie's in

the first act of 'My Queen.' Of course you'll insist--"

"Don't talk your horrid shop now, Sullivan," his wife said; and

Sullivan didn't.

The prelude to the third act was played, and the curtain went up on

the bridal chamber of Elsa and Lohengrin. Sir Cyril Smart rose as if

to go, but lingered, eying the stage as a general might eye a

battle-field from a neighboring hill. The music of the two processions

was heard approaching from the distance. Then, to the too familiar

strains of the wedding march, the ladies began to enter on the right,

and the gentlemen on the left. Elsa appeared amid her ladies, but

there was no Lohengrin in the other crowd. The double chorus

proceeded, and then a certain excitement was visible on the stage, and

the conductor made signs with his left hand.




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