or
of curiosity that Rosetta Rosa was known to them. They were much more
polite than English people would have been, but they did not hide
their interest in us.

The jewels had been locked away in a safe, except one gorgeous emerald
brooch which she was wearing at her neck.

"It appears," I said, "that in Paris one must not even attend
rehearsals without jewels."

She laughed.

"You think I have a passion for jewels, and you despise me for it."

"By no means. Nobody has a better right to wear precious stones than
yourself."

"Can you guess why I wear them?"

"Not because they make you look prettier, for that's impossible."

"Will you please remember that I like you because you are not in the
habit of making speeches."

"I beg pardon. I won't offend again. Well, then, I will confess that I
don't know why you wear jewels. There must be a Puritan strain in my
character, for I cannot enter into the desire for jewels. I say this
merely because you have practically invited me to be brutal."

Now that I recall that conversation I realize how gentle she was
towards my crude and callous notions concerning personal adornment.

"Yet you went to England in order to fetch my jewels."

"No, I went to England in order to be of use to a lady. But tell
me--why do you wear jewels off the stage?"

"Simply because, having them, I have a sort of feeling that they ought
to be used. It seems a waste to keep them hidden in a strong box, and
I never could tolerate waste. Really, I scarcely care more for jewels,
as jewels, than you do yourself."

"Still, for a person who doesn't care for them, you seem to have a
fair quantity of them."

"Ah! But many were given to me--and the rest I bought when I was
young, or soon afterwards. Besides, they are part of my stock in
trade."

"When you were young!" I repeated, smiling. "How long is that since?"

"Ages."

I coughed.

"It is seven years since I was young," she said, "and I was sixteen at
the time."

"You are positively venerable, then; and since you are, I must be
too."

"I am much older than you are," she said; "not in years, but in life.
You don't feel old."

"And do you?"

"Frightfully."

"What brings it on?"

"Oh! Experience--and other things. It is the soul which grows old."

"But you have been happy?"

"Never--never in my life, except when I was singing, have I been
happy. Have you been happy?"

"Yes," I said, "once or twice."

"When you were a boy?"