t who, there, in a land of sunshine, had deigned to
become a simple, an entrancing woman!

And then again, throwing her beautiful body back in her chair, as if in
her mind's eye she could see some old palatial hall festooned with
roses, and in it a maze of hoop skirts, powdered wigs, and red heels,
whirling in the dance, she would brush the keys with a minuet by Mozart,
as subtly fragrant as priceless perfume, as seductive as the smile of a
painted princess with beauty-patches and false dimples!

Rafael had not forgotten the first night of their friendship, nor the
fingers that had been offered to his lips in that selfsame parlor. Once
he was moved to repeat the scene, and bending low over the keys, had
tried to kiss Leonora's hand.

The actress started, as if awakening from a dream. Her eyes flashed
angrily, though her lips did not lose their smile; and she raised her
hand threateningly, with all its fantastic glitter of jewelry, and
pretended to strike at him:

"Take care, Rafael; you're a child and I'll treat you as such. You
already know that I don't like to be annoyed. I won't send you away this
time, but if you do it again, you'll get a good cuffing. Don't forget
that when I want my hand kissed I begin by giving it voluntarily. What a
nuisance! Such a thing happens only once in a life-time.... But, I
understand: no more music for today; it's all over! I'll have to
entertain the little boy so's he won't fuss."

And she began to tell him stories of her professional career, which
Rafael at once appraised as new progress toward intimacy with the divine
beauty.

He looked over her pictures for the various operas in which she had
sung; a rich collection of beautiful photographs, with studio signatures
in almost every European tongue, some of them in strange alphabets that
Rafael could not identify. That pale, mystic Elizabeth of _Tannhaeuser_
had been taken in Milan; that ideal, romantic Elsa of _Lohengrin_, in
Munich; here was a wide-eyed, bourgeois Eva from _die Meistersinger_,
photographed in Vienna; there a proud arrogant Brunhilde, with hostile,
flashing eyes, that bore the imprint of St. Petersburg. And there were
other souvenirs of seasons at Covent Garden, at the San Carlos of
Lisbon, the Scala of Milan, and opera houses of New York and Rio de
Janeiro.

As Rafael handled the large pasteboard mountings, he felt much like a
boy watching strange steamers entering a harbor and scattering the
perfumes of dis