“By Jove, it’s a striking story,” I said.  “But the question is, what does it prove?”

“Several things.  First (what I was careful not to tell my friend), that Madame Blumenthal cared for him a trifle more than he supposed; second, that he cares for her more than ever; third, that the performance was a master-stroke, and that her allowing him to force an interview upon her again is only a question of time.”

“And last?” I asked.

“This is another anecdote.  The other day, Unter den Linden, I saw on a bookseller’s counter a little pink-covered romance—­’Sophronia,’ by Madame Blumenthal.  Glancing through it, I observed an extraordinary abuse of asterisks; every two or three pages the narrative was adorned with a portentous blank, crossed with a row of stars.”

“Well, but poor Clorinda?” I objected, as Niedermeyer paused.

“Sophronia, my dear fellow, is simply Clorinda renamed by the baptism of fire.  The fair author came back, of course, and found Clorinda tumbled upon the floor, a good deal scorched, but, on the whole, more frightened than hurt.  She picks her up, brushes her off, and sends her to the printer.  Wherever the flames had burnt a hole she swings a constellation!  But if the major is prepared to drop a penitent tear over the ashes of Clorinda, I shall not whisper to him that the urn is empty.”

Even Adelina Patti’s singing, for the next half-hour, but half availed to divert me from my quickened curiosity to behold Madame Blumenthal face to face.  As soon as the curtain had fallen again I repaired to her box and was ushered in by Pickering with zealous hospitality.  His glowing smile seemed to say to me, “Ay, look for yourself, and adore!” Nothing could have been more gracious than the lady’s greeting, and I found, somewhat to my surprise, that her prettiness lost nothing on a nearer view.  Her eyes indeed were the finest I have ever seen—­the softest, the deepest, the most intensely responsive.  In spite of something faded and jaded in her physiognomy, her movements, her smile, and the tone of her voice, especially when she laughed, had an almost girlish frankness and spontaneity.  She looked at you very hard with her radiant gray eyes, and she indulged while she talked in a superabundance of restless, rather affected little gestures, as if to make you take her meaning in a certain very particular and superfine sense.  I wondered whether after a while this might not fatigue one’s attention; then meeting her charming eyes, I said, Not for a long time.  She was very clever, and, as Pickering had said, she spoke English admirably.  I told her, as I took my seat beside her, of the fine things I had heard about her from my friend, and she listened, letting me go on some time, and exaggerate a little, with her fine eyes fixed full upon me.  “Really?” she suddenly said, turning short round upon Pickering, who stood behind us, and looking at him in the same way.  “Is that the way you talk about me?”