th it," interposed Mrs. Coldfield, with
the best intentions, nearer the truth than she knew. "I am sorry,
Laura, that I never told you before."

Hildegarde laughed. "Sooner or later this must happen. I worked too
hard, perhaps. At any rate, the opera will know me no more."

There was the hard blue of flint in Cathewe's eyes as they met and held
Breitmann's. There was a duel, and the latter was routed. But hate
burned fiercely in the breast against the man who could compel him to
lower his eyes. Some day he would pay back that glance.

Now, M. Ferraud had missed nothing. He twisted the talk into other
channels with his usual adroitness, but all the while there was
bubbling in his mind the news that these two men had met before. The
history of Hildegarde von Mitter was known to him. But how much did
she know, or this man Cathewe? The woman was a thoroughbred. He,
Anatole Ferraud, knew; it was his business to know; and that she should
happen upon the scene he considered as one of these rare good pieces of
luck that fall to the lot of few. There would be something more than
treasure hunting here; an intricate comedy-drama, with as many
well-defined sides as a diamond. He ate his endive with pleasure and
sipped the old yellow _Pol Roger_ with his eyes beaming toward the
gods. To be, after a fashion, the prompter behind the scenes; to be
able to read the final line before the curtain! Butterflies and
butterflies and pins and pins.

Did Laura note any of the portentous glances, those exchanged between
the singer and Cathewe and Breitmann? Perhaps. At all events she felt
a curiosity to know how long Hildegarde von Mitter had known her
father's secretary. There was no envy in her heart as again she
acknowledged the beauty of the other woman; moreover, she liked her and
was going to like her more. Impressions were made upon her almost
instantly, for good or bad, and rarely changed.

She turned oftenest to Fitzgerald, for he made particular effort to
entertain, and he succeeded better than he dreamed. It kept turning
over in her mind what a whimsical, capricious, whirligig was at work.
It was droll, this man at her side, chatting to her as if he had known
her for years, when, seven or eight days ago, he had stood, a man all
unknown to her, on a city corner, selling plaster of Paris statuettes
on a wager; and but for Mrs. Coldfield, she had passed him for ever.
Out upon the prude who would look askance at