heti had some
papers for her to sign to-day before a notary, and that somehow if she
did not stay and sign them she would lose most of what she has.'

'That's ingenious!' exclaimed Madame Bonanni, with a laugh.

'Ingenious?' Margaret did not understand. 'Do you mean that Madame De
Rosa has invented the story?'

'No, no!' cried the other. 'I mean it was ingenious of fate, you
know--to make such a thing happen just to-day.'

'Oh, very!' assented Margaret carelessly, and rather wishing that
Madame Bonanni would go away, for though she was turning into a
professional artist at an almost alarming rate, she was not yet
hardened in regard to little things and preferred to be alone with her
maid while she was dressing.

But Madame Bonanni had no intention of staying, and now went away
rather abruptly, after nodding to her old maid, unseen by Margaret, as
if there were some understanding between them, for the woman answered
the signal with an unmistakable look of intelligence.

In the corridor Madame Bonanni met the contralto taking a temporary
leave of the wholesale upholsterer at the door of her dressing-room, a
black-browed, bony young Italian woman with the face of a Medea, whose
boast it was that with her voice and figure she could pass for a man
when she pleased.

Madame Bonanni greeted her and stopped a moment.

'Please do not think I have only just come to the theatre,' said the
Italian. 'I have been listening to her in the house, though I have
heard her so often at rehearsals.'

'Well?' asked the elder woman. 'What do you think of it?'

'It is the voice of an angel--and then, she is handsome, too! But----'

'But what?'

'She is a statue,' answered the contralto in a tone of mingled pity and
contempt. 'She has no heart.'

'They say that of most lyric sopranos,' laughed Madame Bonanni.

'I never heard it said of you! You have a heart as big as the world!'
The Italian made a circle of her two arms, to convey an idea of the
size of the prima donna's heart, while the wholesale upholsterer, who
had a good eye, compared the measurement with that lady's waist. 'You
bring the tears to my eyes when you sing,' continued the contralto,
'but Cordova is different. She only makes me hate her because she has
such a splendid voice!'

'Don't hate her, my dear,' said Madame Bonanni gently. 'She's a friend
of mine. And as for the heart, child, it's like a loaf of bread! You
must break it to get anything out of it, and if