“They are insincere to opera singers who happen to be young, beautiful, and rich, which is my sad case.  The ways of the people who flutter round a theatre are not my ways.  I was brought up simply, as you were in your Devonshire home.  I hate to spend my life as if it was one long diplomatic reception.  Ugh!”

She clenched her hands, and one of the threads of the necklace gave way, and the pearls scattered themselves over her lap.

“There!  That necklace was given to me by one of my friends!” She paused.

“Yes?” I said tentatively.

“He is dead now.  You have heard—­everyone knows—­that I was once engaged to Lord Clarenceux.  He was a friend.  He loved me—­he died—­my friends have a habit of dying.  Alresca died.”

The conversation halted.  I wondered whether I might speak of Lord Clarenceux, or whether to do so would be an indiscretion.  She began to collect the pearls.

“Yes,” she repeated softly, “he was a friend.”

I drew a strange satisfaction from the fact that, though she had said frankly that he loved her, she had not even hinted that she loved him.

“Lord Clarenceux must have been a great man,” I said.

“That is exactly what he was,” she answered with a vague enthusiasm.  “And a great nobleman too!  So different from the others.  I wish I could describe him to you, but I cannot.  He was immensely rich—­he looked on me as a pauper.  He had the finest houses, the finest judgment in the world.  When he wanted anything he got it, no matter what the cost.  All dealers knew that, and any one who had ‘the best’ to sell knew that in Lord Clarenceux he would find a purchaser.  He carried things with a high hand.  I never knew another man so determined, or one who could be more stern or more exquisitely kind.  He knew every sort of society, and yet he had never married.  He fell in love with me, and offered me his hand.  I declined—­I was afraid of him.  He said he would shoot himself.  And he would have done it; so I accepted.  I should have ended by loving him.  For he wished me to love him, and he always had his way.  He was a man, and he held the same view of my world that I myself hold.  Mr. Foster, you must think I’m in a very chattering mood.”

I protested with a gesture.

“Lord Clarenceux died.  And I am alone.  I was terribly lonely after his death.  I missed his jealousy.”

“He was jealous?”

“He was the most jealous man, I think, who ever lived.  His jealousy escorted me everywhere like a guard of soldiers.  Yet I liked him even for that.  He was genuine; so sincere, so masterful with it.  In all matters his methods were drastic.  If he had been alive I should not be tormented by the absurd fears which I now allow to get the better of me.”

“Fears!  About what?”

“To be frank, about my debut at the Opera Comique.  I can imagine,” she smiled, “how he would have dealt with that situation.”