“I was thinking of Alresca,” she murmured, “my poor Alresca.  He is the rarest gentleman and the finest artist in Europe, and he is suffering.”

“Well,” I said, “one can’t break one’s thigh for nothing.”

“It is not his thigh.  It is something else.”

“What?”

She shook her head, to indicate her inability to answer.

Here I must explain that, on the morning after the accident, I had taken a hansom to the Devonshire Mansion with the intention of paying a professional visit to Alresca.  I was not altogether certain that I ought to regard the case as mine, but I went.  Immediately before my hansom, however, there had drawn up another hansom in front of the portals of the Devonshire, and out of that other hansom had stepped the famous Toddy MacWhister.  Great man as Toddy was, he had an eye on “saxpences,” and it was evident that, in spite of the instructions which he had given me as to the disposal of Alresca, Toddy was claiming the patient for his own.  I retired.  It was the only thing I could do.  Two doctors were not needed, and I did not see myself, a young man scarcely yet escaped from the fear of examinations, disputing cases with the redoubtable Toddy.  I heard afterwards that he had prolonged his stay in London in order to attend Alresca.  So that I had not seen the tenor since his accident.

“What does Monsieur Alresca want to see me about?” I demanded cautiously.

“He will tell you,” said Rosa, equally cautious.

A silence followed.

“Do you think I upset him—­that night?” she asked.

“You wish me to be frank?”

“If I had thought you would not be frank I would not have asked you.  Do you imagine it is my habit to go about putting awkward questions like that?”

“I think you did upset him very much.”

“You think I was wrong?”

“I do.”

“Perhaps you are right,” she admitted.

I had been bold.  A desire took me to be still bolder.  She was in the carriage with me.  She was not older than I. And were she Rosetta Rosa, or a mere miss taken at hazard out of a drawing-room, she was feminine and I was masculine.  In short—­Well, I have fits of rashness sometimes.

“You say he is depressed,” I addressed her firmly.  “And I will venture to inform you that I am not in the least surprised.”

“Oh!” she exclaimed.  “And why?”

“After what you said to him that night in the dressing-room.  If I had been in Alresca’s place I know that I should be depressed, and very much depressed, too.”

“You mean—­” she faltered.

“Yes,” I said, “I mean that.”

I thought I had gone pretty far, and my heart was beating.  I could not justly have protested had she stopped the carriage and deposited me on the pavement by the railings of Green Park.  But her character was angelic.  She accepted my treatment of her with the most astounding meekness.