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