short that duet over there
now; Mrs. Minne is not fond of you." "Nonsense!" said Tannhaeuser, but he
lounged over toward the two women and his big frame was noted by all the
girls in the room.

Tannhaeuser had a very taking way with him. His eyes were sky-blue and
his hair old gold. He was a terrific sportsman and when not making love
was singing. From his Teutonic ancestry he had inherited a taste for
music which desultory study in a German university town, combined with a
musical ear, had improved. He had been told by managers that if he would
work hard he could make a sensation, but Henry was lazy and Henry was
rich, so he sang, shot big game and flirted his years away. Then he met
Mrs. Holda, of Berg Street, Piccadilly.

The women were not looking at each other with loving eyes when he drew
near. Elizabeth turned to him, her face aglow: "Let us walk a bit before
Mr. Eschenbach sings." Her manner was almost seductive. Mrs. Minne
sneered slightly and waved her fan condescendingly at the two as they
moved slowly up the room. "There go the biggest pair of fools in all
Christendom," she remarked to Biterolf; "why, she will believe
everything he tells her. She wouldn't listen to my advice." Biterolf
shook his head. When Tannhaeuser and Elizabeth returned both looked
supremely happy.

"That woman has actually been abusing you, Harry." He pressed her arm
reassuringly. Wolfram Eschenbach began to sing "Blick' ich umher in
diesem edlen Kreise," and once more silence fell upon the bored crowd.
Sympathy was in his tones and he sang tenderly, lovingly. Elizabeth
listened unmoved. She now had eyes for Tannhaeuser only, and she laughed
aloud when he proposed to follow Wolfram with a solo.

"Do," she said enthusiastically, "it will stir them all up." Although
this number was not down on the program, Tannhaeuser was welcomed as he
went to the piano. Wolfram seemed uneasy and once looked fixedly at
Elizabeth. Then he walked out on the balcony as if seeking some one, and
Mrs. Minne nudged her stolid neighbor. "Mark my words, there's trouble
brewing," she declared.

By this time Tannhaeuser was in his best form. He seemed to have regained
all his usual elasticity, for Berg Street, with its depressing memories,
had completely vanished. He expanded his chest and sang, his victorious
blue eyes fastened on Elizabeth. He sang the song of Venus, "Dir, Goettin
der Liebe," and all the old passion came into his voice; when he uttered
"Zie