And she smiled.

"Personally," she went on, "I hate music--loathe it. But it's
Sullivan's trade, and, of course, one must come here."

She waved a jewelled arm towards the splendid animation of the
auditorium.

"But surely, Emmeline," I cried protestingly, "you didn't 'loathe'
that first act. I never heard anything like it. Rosa was simply--well,
I can't describe it."

She gazed at me, and a cloud of melancholy seemed to come into her
eyes. And after a pause she said, in the strangest tone, very quietly:

"You're in love with her already."

And her eyes continued to hold mine.

"Who could help it?" I laughed.

She leaned towards me, and her left hand hung over the edge of the
box.

"Women like Rosetta Rosa ought to be killed!" she said, with
astonishing ferocity. Her rich, heavy contralto vibrated through me.
She was excited again, that was evident. The nervous mood had
overtaken her. The long pendent lobes of her ears crimsoned, and her
opulent bosom heaved. I was startled. I was rather more than