you never break it at
all it dries up into a sort of little wooden cannon-ball! Cordova will
break hers, some day, and then you will all say that she is a great
artist!'

Thereupon Madame Bonanni kissed the contralto affectionately, as she
kissed most people, nodded and smiled to the wholesale upholsterer, and
went on her way to cross the stage and get back to her box.

She found Lushington there when she opened the door, looking as if he
had not moved since she had left him. He rose as she entered, and then
sat down beside her.

'Have you any money with you?' she asked, suddenly.

'Yes. How much do you want?'

'I don't want any for myself. Tom, do something for me. Go out and buy
the biggest woman's cloak you can find. The shops are all open still.
Get something that will come down to my feet, and cover me up entirely.
We are nearly of the same height, and you can measure it on yourself.'

'All right,' said Lushington, who was well used to his mother's
caprices.

'And, Tom,' she called, as he was going to the door, 'get a closed
carriage and bring it to the stage entrance when you come back. And be
quick, my darling child! You must be back in half-an-hour, or you won't
hear the duet.'

'It won't take half an hour to buy a cloak,' answered Lushington.

'Oh, I forgot--it must have a hood that will quite cover my head--I
mean without my hat, of course!'

'Very well--a big hood. I understand. Anything else?'

'No. Now run, sweet child!'

Lushington went out to do the errand, and Madame Bonanni drew back into
the shadow of the box, for the lights were up in the house between the
acts. She sat quite still, leaning forward and resting her chin on her
hand, and her elbow on her knee, thinking.

There was a knock at the door; she sprang to her feet and opened, and
found a shabby woman, who looked like a rather slatternly servant,
standing outside with the box-opener, who had shown her where to find
the prima donna. The shabby woman gave her a dingy piece of paper
folded and addressed hurriedly in pencil, in Logotheti's familiar
handwriting. She spread out the half-sheet and read the contents twice
over, looked hard at the messenger and then looked at the note again.

'Who gave you this? Who sent you?' she asked.

'You are Madame Bonanni, are you not?' inquired the woman, instead of
answering.

'Of course I am! I want to know who sent you to me.'

'The note is for you, Madame, is it not?' asked the woman,