Breitmann had tried ineffectually to read their lips.  She had given her word, and once given, he knew of old that she never broke it; but he was keenly alive that in some way he was the topic of the inaudible conversation.  As he sat here to-night he knew why he had never loved Hildegarde, why in fact, he had never loved any woman.  The one great passion which comes in the span of life was centered in the girl beside him, dividing her moments between him and Fitzgerald.  Strange, but he had not known it till he saw the two women together.  For once his nice calculations had ceased to run smoothly; there appeared now a knot in the thread for which he saw no untying.

“You do not sing now?” asked Laura across the table.

“No,” Hildegarde answered, “my voice is gone.”

“Oh, I am so sorry.”

“It does not matter.  I can hum a little to myself; there is yet some pleasure in that.  But in opera, no, never again.  Has not Mrs. Coldfield told you?  No?  Imagine!  One night in Dresden, in the middle of the aria, my voice broke miserably and I could not go on.”

“And her heart nearly broke with it,” interposed Mrs. Coldfield, with the best intentions, nearer the truth than she knew.  “I am sorry, Laura, that I never told you before.”

Hildegarde laughed.  “Sooner or later this must happen.  I worked too hard, perhaps.  At any rate, the opera will know me no more.”

There was the hard blue of flint in Cathewe’s eyes as they met and held Breitmann’s.  There was a duel, and the latter was routed.  But hate burned fiercely in the breast against the man who could compel him to lower his eyes.  Some day he would pay back that glance.

Now, M. Ferraud had missed nothing.  He twisted the talk into other channels with his usual adroitness, but all the while there was bubbling in his mind the news that these two men had met before.  The history of Hildegarde von Mitter was known to him.  But how much did she know, or this man Cathewe?  The woman was a thoroughbred.  He, Anatole Ferraud, knew; it was his business to know; and that she should happen upon the scene he considered as one of these rare good pieces of luck that fall to the lot of few.  There would be something more than treasure hunting here; an intricate comedy-drama, with as many well-defined sides as a diamond.  He ate his endive with pleasure and sipped the old yellow Pol Roger with his eyes beaming toward the gods.  To be, after a fashion, the prompter behind the scenes; to be able to read the final line before the curtain!  Butterflies and butterflies and pins and pins.

Did Laura note any of the portentous glances, those exchanged between the singer and Cathewe and Breitmann?  Perhaps.  At all events she felt a curiosity to know how long Hildegarde von Mitter had known her father’s secretary.  There was no envy in her heart as again she acknowledged the beauty of the other woman; moreover, she liked her and was going to like her more.  Impressions were made upon her almost instantly, for good or bad, and rarely changed.