stage of the Opera
after an extraordinary triumph in her greatest role--that of Isolde in
"Tristan."

And so her presence by my side soothed away almost at once the
excitation and the spiritual disturbance of the scene through which I
had just passed with Emmeline; and I was disposed, if not to laugh at
the whole thing, at any rate to regard it calmly, dispassionately, as
one of the various inexplicable matters with which one meets in a
world absurdly called prosaic. I was sure that no trick had been
played upon me. I was sure that I had actually seen in the crystal
what I had described to Emmeline, and that she, too, had seen it. But
then, I argued, such an experience might be the result of hypnotic
suggestion, or of thought transference, or of some other imperfectly
understood agency.... Rosetta Rosa an instrument of misfortune! No!

When I looked at her I comprehended how men have stopped at nothing
for the sake of love, and how a woman, if only she be beautiful
enough, may wield a power compared to which the sway of a Tsar, even a
Tsar unhampered by Dumas, is impotence itself. Even at that early
stage I had begun to be a captive to her. But I did not believe that
her rule was malign.

"Mr. Foster," she said, "I have asked you to see me to my carriage,
but really I want you to do more than that. I want you to go with me
to poor Alresca's. He is progressing satisfactorily, so far as I can
judge, but the dear fellow is thoroughly depressed. I saw him this
afternoon, and he wished, if I met you here to-night, that I should
bring you to him. He has a proposition to make to you, and I hope you
will accept it."

"I shall accept it, then," I said.

She pulled out a tiny gold watch, glistening with diamonds.

"It is half-past one," she said. "We might be there in ten minutes.
You don't mind it being late, I suppose. We singers, you know, have
our own hours."

In the foyer we had to wait while the carriage was called. I stood
silent, and perhaps abstracted, at her elbow, absorbed in the pride
and happiness of being so close to her, and looking forward with a
tremulous pleasure to the drive through London at her side. She was
dressed in gray, with a large ermine-lined cloak, and she wore no
ornaments except a thin jewelled dagger in her lovely hair.

All at once I saw that she flushed, and, following the direction of
her eyes, I beheld Sir Cyril Smart, with a startled gaze fixed
immovably on her face. Except the foo