"All right." In his dull way he had learned that to pull the diva, one

must agree with her. In agreeing with her one adroitly dissuaded her. "You

go to Capri, and I'll go to the pavilion on the Neva."

She snuffed the cigarette in the coffee-cup and frowned. "Some day you

will make me horribly angry."

"Beautiful tigress! If a man knew what you wanted, you would not want it.

I can't hop about with the agility of those dancers at the Théâtre du

Palais Royale. The best I can do is to imitate the bear. What is wrong?"

"They keep giving her the premier parts. She has no more fire in her than

a dead grate. The English-speaking singers, they are having everything

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their own way. And none of them can act."

"My dear Flora, this Eleonora is an actress, first of all. That she can

sing is a matter of good fortune, no more. Be reasonable. The consensus of

critical opinion is generally infallible; and all over the continent they

agree that she can act. Come, come; what do you care? She will never

approach your Carmen...."

"You praise her to me?" tempest in her glowing eyes.

"I do not praise her. I am quoting facts. If you throw that cup, my

tigress...."

"Well?" dangerously.

"It will spoil the set. Listen. Some one is at the speaking-tube."

The singer crossed the room impatiently. Ordinarily she would have

continued the dispute, whether the bell rang or not. But she was getting

the worst of the argument and the bell was a timely diversion. The duke

followed her leisurely to the wall.

"What is it?" asked Flora in French.

The voice below answered with a query in English. "Is this the Signorina

Desimone?"

"It is the duchess."

"The duchess?"

"Yes."

"The devil!"

She turned and stared at the duke, who shrugged. "No, no," she said; "the

duchess, not the devil."

"Pardon me; I was astonished. But on the stage you are still Flora

Desimone?"

"Yes. And now that my identity is established, who are you and what do you

want at this time of night?"

The duke touched her arm to convey that this was not the moment in which

to betray her temper.

"I am Edward Courtlandt."

"The devil!" mimicked the diva.

She and the duke heard a chuckle.

"I beg your pardon again, Madame."




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