d Verelst--who lost it.

XIII

The two hundred and fifty--less ten per cent--which an imaginary Mrs.
Beamish had paid for the pleasure of not hearing Cassy sing, transported
the girl who was not given to transports. These subsiding, she viewed
the matter from its business aspect. She needed a frock, a wrap, a hat,
gloves, shoes and certain things that are nowhere visible except in
advertisements, shop-windows and extreme privacy. Also, her hair
required tralalaing. Meanwhile, first and foremost, Lennox must be paid.
The subsidy was not too much by a penny. These considerations occupied
but an instant.

"When is it?" she asked the Tamburini, who, a moment before, had
dumbfounded her with the money.

"When is what?" inquired the ex-star who already had forgotten Mrs.
Beamish.

"Why, the concert!"

Carlotta Tamburini was dressed like a fat idol, in silk and false
pearls. There the idolatry ceased. In her hand was an umbrella and on
her head a hat of rose-leaves which a black topknot surmounted. About
her shoulders was a feather boa. It seemed a bit mangy. Seated on
Cassy's bed she looked at a window that gave on a wall. Cassy was
standing. Behind Cassy was a door which the extinguished light had
closed. Beyond, in the living-room, was the marquis. Anything that he
did not hear would not hurt him.

"Oh, she'll let us know."

"What sort of a catamount is she?"

At that the former prima donna's imagination balked. But she got
something out. "Nice enough. What do you care?"

"I hate all those snobs."

"So do I," said the Tamburini, who worshipped the breed even when
non-existent. "But don't go and include him. If it hadn't been for
him----"

"Was he with her?"

"You ought to have heard the way he went on about you. She said: 'Why,
Monty, I do believe you'd like to marry her.'"

Cassy's mouth twitched as she munched it. "She presumed to say that!
She's an insolent beast."

"He shut her up, I can tell you. He said if he got on his knees, you
wouldn't dust your feet on him."

"That jackanapes! I should say not!"

"You might say worse. Take the Metro. You're spat on if you're down and
spat at if you're up. A dog's own life." Lifting her voice, the fat
woman sang: "Croyez-moi car j'ai passe par la."

"What has that to do with it?"

Nothing whatever, the Tamburini truthfully reflected but omitted to say
so. Paliser, in producing Mrs. Beamish, had also produced the programme.
With both was a cheque