theme of
self, and was no longer keen to listen to the recital of her small
aspirations.

"Playing in these gilded saloons, shut up in my office at the Opera,
my imaginative past is dull and dead. When I walk through the silent
streets watching the tide of life as it flows by, the nobleman rolling
by in his carriage, the beggar cringing for alms, great thoughts come
to me. Overhead at night, the stars, full of mystery and wonder, this
petty world beneath! Then, Princess, my imagination awakes. I feel in
me some of that divine fire which must have informed the great
Beethoven when he composed 'The Moonlight Sonata,' some of that
inspiration which moved Chopin, Wagner, and the other great masters."

He waved his arms with a dramatic gesture. "That is why I walk rather
than ride. Speaking as a composer, when I am confined in a close
space, I am dead artistically. When I walk and look round on life, I
find inspiration."

He was very glowing, very impassioned. Nada felt her pulses thrill as
she listened to him. But perhaps, because she was not the full and
complete artist that Corsini was, she always leaned to the practical
side.

"Oh, please do not think I am not capable of understanding you," she
said. "If I were the artist you are, I should break away from the
narrow confines of this Palace and seek inspiration, like you, from
the moon and stars, even in the silent streets."

She paused a moment, and then added, with her full knowledge of what
was lying in wait for him, "But all the same, Signor, in spite of the
inspiration you may derive, I wish you would not walk home to-night.
Give the moon, the stars, the silent streets the go-by for once. Wait
for your inspiration till to-morrow."

He was flattered by that direct appeal to him from such a beautiful
girl, but of course, he had no idea of the reason that had prompted
it.

"But, Princess, why put an embargo on this exquisite night? As I walk
along, great ideas will come to me. I may be able to think of
something worthy of Chopin, Schumann, even of the great Wagner
himself."

She leaned forward to him a little from her side of the divan, and her
flower-like face was very close to his. He could catch the subtle
perfume of her hair, the scent of the roses at her breast.

"It is just a little whim of mine, Signor Corsini. You work very hard,
you are devoured by your artistic ambitions which nourish the soul,
but consume the body to ashes. Do not incur unnecessa