her hand, sat in the middle of the front row of seats. It was she who
directed how the beer should be apportioned; she advised a few
late-comers where they would still find room, and engaged Furst to
place the lights on the piano to better advantage. Next her, a Mrs.
Lautenschlager, a plump little American lady, with straight yellow
hair which hung down on her shoulders, was relating to her neighbour
on the other side, in a tone that could be clearly heard in both
rooms, how she had "discovered" her voice.

"I come to Schwarz, last fall," she said shaking back her
hair, and making effective use of her babyish mouth; "and he thinks no
end of me. But the other week I was sick, and as I lay in bed, I sung
some--just for fun. And my landlady--she's a regular singer herself--who
was fixing up the room, she claps her hands together and says: 'My
goodness me! Why YOU have a voice!' That's what put it in my head, and
I went to Sperling to hear what he'd got to say. He was just tickled
to death, I guess he was, and he's going to make something dandy of
it, so I stop long enough. I don't know what my husband'll say though.
When I wrote him I was sick, he says: 'Come home and be sick at
home'--that's what he says."

Miss Jensen could not let pass the opportunity of breaking a lance for
her own master, the Swede, and of cutting up Sperling's method, which
she denounced as antiquated. She made quite a little speech, in the
course of which she now and then interrupted herself to remind
Furst--who, was as soft as a pudding before her--of something he had
forgotten to do, such as snuffing the candles or closing the door.

"Just let me hear your scale, will you?" she said patronisingly to
Mrs. Lautenschlager. The latter, nothing loath, stuck out her chin,