ion to the heart of the
wearied listener. Moreover, she had a very real sense of being a square
peg in a round hole when she and the other minions of Venus tripped
round the frequent rocks of Venusberg. It was as if a confectioner had
stuck a shepherdess of pink icing on the top of a plum-pudding. Jenny
felt, in her own words, that it was all unnatural. There was nothing of
Walpurgis in their stereotyped allurement. It was Bobbing Joan in
Canterbury Close. The violins might wail through the darkened opera
house, but an obese Tannhaeuser caught by the wiles of an adipose Venus
during the inexpressive seductions of an Italian ballet was silly; the
poses to be sustained were fatiguing and ineffective. More fatiguing
still was Jenny's almost unendurable waiting as page while the
competitors sang to Elizabeth. There were four pages in purple velvet
tunics. Jenny looked her part, but the other three looked like Victoria
plums. The one scene in German opera that she really enjoyed was the
Valkyries' ride, when she and a few selected girls were strapped high up
to the enchanted horses and rocked exhaustingly through the terrific
clamor.

But these excursions into Gothic steeps among the distraught populations
of the north were not the main feature of the opera season. They were a
_tour de force_ of rocks in a dulcet enclosure. Over Covent Garden hung
the magic of an easy and opulent decoration. It sparkled from the tiaras
in the grand circle. It flashed from the tie-pins of the basses, from
the rings of the tenors. It breathed on the oceanic bosoms of the
contraltos. It trembled round the pleated hips of the sopranos.
Everything was fat--a pasha's comfortable dream.

Jenny, being little and svelte, was distressed by the prevalent
sumptuousness. A fine figure began to seem a fine ambition.

"My dear child, you are thin," some gracious prima donna would murmur
richly just before she tripped on to the stage to play consumptive Mimi.

Jenny could not see that she was advancing to fame at Covent Garden. Nor
was she, indeed, but Madame Aldavini tried to console her by insisting
upon the valuable experience and pointing out the products of success
that surrounded her. Covent Garden was only a stepping-stone, Madame
reminded her.

Here she was at seventeen without a chance to display her
accomplishments. It was more acting than dancing at Covent Garden.
Jenny, too, was always chosen for such voiceless parts as were
important. Som