ademoiselle wore some fine jewels, I bade him be off."

"Would you know him again?"

"Surely, Mademoiselle."

"The next time any one bothers you, call the police. You have done well,
and I shall remember it. Home."

The man in the Bavarian hat hurried back to the third car from the
limousine, and followed at a reasonably safe distance.

The singer leaned back against the cushions. She was very tired. The opera
that night had taxed her strength, and but for her promise she would not
have sung to the ambassador's guests for double the fee. There was an
electric bulb in the car. She rarely turned it on, but she did to-night.
She gazed into the little mirror; and utter weariness looked back from out
the most beautiful, blue, Irish eyes in the world. She rubbed her fingers
carefully up and down the faint perpendicular wrinkle above her nose. It
was always there on nights like this. How she longed for the season to
end! She would fly away to the lakes, the beautiful, heavenly tinted
lakes, the bare restful mountains, and the clover lawns spreading under
brave old trees; she would walk along the vineyard paths, and loiter under
the fig-trees, far, far away from the world, its clamor, its fickleness,
its rasping jealousies. Some day she would have enough; and then, good-by
to all the clatter, the evil-smelling stages, the impossible people with
whom she was associated. She would sing only to those she loved.

The glamour of the life had long ago passed; she sang on because she had
acquired costly habits, because she was fond of beautiful things, and
above all, because she loved to sing. She had as many moods as a bird, as
many sides as nature. A flash of sunshine called to her voice; the beads
of water, trembling upon the blades of grass after a summer shower,
brought a song to her lips. Hers was a God-given voice, and training had
added to it nothing but confidence. True, she could act; she had been told
by many a great impressario that histrionically she had no peer in grand
opera. But the knowledge gave her no thrill of delight. To her it was the
sum of a tremendous physical struggle.

She shut off the light and closed her eyes. She reclined against the
cushion once more, striving not to think. Once, her hands shut tightly.
Never, never, never! She pressed down the burning thoughts by recalling
the bright scenes at the ambassador's, the real generous applause that had
followed her two songs. Ah, how that man Paderewski