Immediately the second act was over, Sullivan returned, bringing with
him a short, slight, bald-headed man of about fifty. The two were
just finishing a conversation on some stage matter.

"Smart, let me introduce to you my cousin, Carl Foster. Carl, this is
Sir Cyril Smart."

My first feeling was one of surprise that a man so celebrated should
be so insignificant to the sight. Yet as he looked at me I could
somehow feel that here was an intelligence somewhat out of the common.
At first he said little, and that little was said chiefly to my
cousin's wife, but there was a quietude and firmness in his speech
which had their own effect.

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