He paused, as if inwardly working at the problem.

“Well, and how did you make it up?” Sullivan asked briskly.

(As for me, I felt as if I had come suddenly into the centre of the great world.)

“Oh, nothing happened for a time.  She sang in Paris and America, and took her proper place as the first soprano in the world.  I did without her, and managed very well.  Then early this spring she sent her agent to see me, and offered to sing ten times for three thousand pounds.  They can’t keep away from London, you know.  New York and Chicago are all very well for money, but if they don’t sing in London people ask ’em why.  I wanted to jump at the offer, but I pretended not to be eager.  Up till then she had confined herself to French operas; so I said that London wouldn’t stand an exclusively French repertoire from any one, and would she sing in ‘Lohengrin.’  She would.  I suggested that she should open with ‘Lohengrin,’ and she agreed.  The price was stiffish, but I didn’t quarrel with that.  I never drive bargains.  She is twenty-two now, or twenty-three; in a few more years she will want five hundred pounds a night, and I shall have to pay it.”

“And how did she meet you?”

“With just the same cold politeness.  And I understand her less than ever.”

“She isn’t English, I suppose?” I put in.

“English!” Sir Cyril ejaculated.  “No one ever heard of a great English soprano.  Unless you count Australia as England, and Australia wouldn’t like that.  No.  That is another of her mysteries.  No one knows where she emerged from.  She speaks English and French with absolute perfection.  Her Italian accent is beautiful.  She talks German freely, but badly.  I have heard that she speaks perfect Flemish,—­which is curious,—­but I do not know.”

“Well,” said Sullivan, nodding his head, “give me the theatrical as opposed to the operatic star.  The theatrical star’s bad enough, and mysterious enough, and awkward enough.  But, thank goodness, she isn’t polite—­at least, those at the Diana aren’t.  You can speak your mind to ’em.  And that reminds me, Smart, about that costume of Effie’s in the first act of ‘My Queen.’  Of course you’ll insist—­”

“Don’t talk your horrid shop now, Sullivan,” his wife said; and Sullivan didn’t.

The prelude to the third act was played, and the curtain went up on the bridal chamber of Elsa and Lohengrin.  Sir Cyril Smart rose as if to go, but lingered, eying the stage as a general might eye a battle-field from a neighboring hill.  The music of the two processions was heard approaching from the distance.  Then, to the too familiar strains of the wedding march, the ladies began to enter on the right, and the gentlemen on the left.  Elsa appeared amid her ladies, but there was no Lohengrin in the other crowd.  The double chorus proceeded, and then a certain excitement was visible on the stage, and the conductor made signs with his left hand.