morning." Mrs. Minne
paused for breath. Both women moved in the inner musical set of
fashionable London and both captained rival camps. Mrs. Minne was voted
a saint and Mrs. Holda a sinner--a fascinating one.... There was a
little feeling in the widow's usually placid voice when she again
questioned Biterolf.

"I always fancied that Eschenbach, that man with the baritone voice, son
of the rich brewer--you know him of course?--I always fancied that he
was making up to our pretty young innocent over yonder."

Biterolf gazed in amusement at his companion. Her veiled, sarcastic tone
was not lost on him; he felt that he had to measure his words with this
lily-like creature.

"Oh, yes; Wolfram Eschenbach? Certainly, I know him. He sings very well
for an amateur. I believe he is to sing this evening. Let us go out on
the balcony; it's very warm." "I intend remaining here, for I shall not
miss a trick in the game to-night and if, as you say, that silly
Tannhaeuser was seen leaving the Holda's house this afternoon--" "Yes,
with young Walter Vogelweide, and they were quarrelling--" "Drinking, I
suppose?" "No; Henry was very much depressed, and when Eschenbach asked
him where he had been so long--" "What a fool question for a man in love
with Elizabeth Landgrave," interposed Mrs. Minne, tartly. "Henry
answered that he didn't know, and he wished he were in the Thames." "And
a good place for him, say I." The lady put up her lorgnon and bowed
amiably to Miss Landgrave, who was talking eagerly to her uncle....

The elder Landgrave was as fond of hunting as of music, and sedulously
fostered the cultivation of his niece's voice. As she stood beside him,
her slender figure was almost as tall as his. Her eyes were large in the
cup and they went violet in the sunlight; at night they seemed
lustrously black. She was in virginal white this evening, and her
delicately modelled head was turned toward the door. Her uncle spoke
slowly to her.

"He promised to come." Elizabeth flushed. "Whether he does or not, I
shall sing; besides, his rudeness is unbearable. Uncle, dear, what can I
say to a man who goes away for a month without vouchsafing me a word of
excuse?"

Her uncle coughed insinuatingly in his beard. He was a widower.

"Hadn't we better begin, uncle? Go out on the balcony and stop that
noisy gypsy band. I hate Hungarian music." ... She carried herself with
dignity, and Mr. Landgrave admired the pretty curves of her face and
wond