t is Mademoiselle Idiale," he said, "the most wonderful soprano
in the world."

"Why does she look so at you?" Zoe asked.

Laverick shook his head.

"I do not know her," he said. "I know who she is, of course,--every
one does. She is a Servian, and they say that she is devoted to her
country. She left Vienna at a moment's notice, only a few days ago,
and they say that it was because she had sworn never to sing again
before the enemies of her country. She had been engaged a long time
to appear at Covent Garden, but no one believed that she would really
come. She breaks her engagements just when she chooses. In fact,
she is a very wonderful person altogether."

"I never saw such pearls in my life," Zoe whispered. "And how
lovely she is! I do not understand, though, why she is so
interested in you."

"She mistakes me for some one, perhaps."

It certainly seemed probable. Even at that moment she touched
her escort upon the arm, and he distinctly looked across at
Laverick. It was obvious that he was the subject of her
conversation.

"I know the man," Laverick said. "He was at Harrow with me, and I
have played cricket with him since. But I have certainly never met
Mademoiselle Idiale. One does not forget that sort of person."

"Her figure is magnificent," Zoe murmured wistfully. "Do you like
tall women very much, Mr. Laverick?"

"I adore them," he answered, smiling, "but I prefer small ones."

"We are very foolish people, you and I," she laughed. "We came
together so strangely and yet we talk such frivolous nonsense."

"You are making me young again," he declared.

"Oh, you are quite young enough!" she assured him. "To tell you
the truth, I am jealous. Mademoiselle Idiale looks at you all the
time. Look at her now. Is she not beautiful?"

There was no doubt about her beauty, but those who were criticising
her--and she was by far the most interesting person in the room--thought
her a little sad. Though Bellamy was doing his utmost to
be entertaining, her eyes seemed to travel every now and then over
his head and out of the room. Wherever her thoughts were, one could
be very sure that they were not fixed upon the subject under
discussion.

"She is like that when she sings," Laverick remarked. "She has none
of the vivacity of the Frenchwomen. Yet there was never anything
so graceful in the world as the way she moves about the stage."

"If I were a man," Zoe sighed, "that is the sort of