I laid myself out to arrange terms of peace.

"I have had difficulties with prime donne before, scores of times.
Yes; I have had experience." He laughed sardonically. "I thought I
knew what to do. Generally a prima donna has either a pet dog or a pet
parrot--sopranos go in for dogs, contraltos seem to prefer parrots. I
have made a study of these agreeable animals, and I have found that
through them their mistresses can be approached when all other avenues
are closed. I can talk doggily to poodles in five languages, and in
the art of administering sugar to the bird I am, I venture to think,
unrivalled. But Rosa had no pets. And after a week's negotiation, I
was compelled to own myself beaten. It was a disadvantage to me that
she wouldn't lose her temper. She was too polite; she really was
grateful for what I had done for her. She gave me no chance to work on
her feelings. But beyond all this there was something strange about
Rosa, something I have never been able to fathom. She isn't a child
like most of 'em. She's as strong-headed as I am myself, every bit!"

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