, with an intimate formality, 'I present Mademoiselle
Morenita and Monsieur Villedo. They insisted on seeing you. Mademoiselle,
Monsieur--Mademoiselle Peel.'

I stood up.

'All our excuses,' said Villedo, in a low, discreet voice, as he
carefully shut the door. 'All our excuses, madame. But it was necessary
that I should pay my respects--it was stronger than I.'

And he came forward, took my hand, and raised it to his lips. He is a
little finicking man, with a little gray beard, and the red rosette in
his button-hole, and a most consummate ease of manner.

'Monsieur,' I replied, 'you are too amiable. And you, madame. I cannot
sufficiently thank you both.'

Morenita rushed at me with a swift, surprising movement, her cloak
dropping from her shoulders, and taking both my hands, she kissed me
impulsively.

'You have genius,' she said; 'and I am proud. I am ashamed that I cannot
read English; but I have the intention to learn in order to read your
books. Our Diaz says wonderful things of them.'

She is a tall, splendidly-made, opulent creature, of my own age, born for
the footlights, with an extremely sweet and thrilling voice, and that
slight coarseness or exaggeration of gesture and beauty which is the
penalty of the stage. She did not in the least resemble a La Valliere as
she stood there gazing at me, with her gleaming, pencilled eyes and
heavy, scarlet lips. It seemed impossible that she could refine herself
to a La Valliere. But that woman is the drama itself. She would act no
matter what. She has always the qualities necessary to a role. And the
gods have given her green eyes, so that she may be La Valliere to the
very life.

I began to thank her for her superb performance.

'It is I who should thank you,' she answered. 'It will be my greatest
part. Never have I had so many glorious situations in a part. Do you
like my limp?'

She smiled, her head on one side. Success glittered in those orbs.

'You limp adorably,' I said.

'It is my profession to make compliments,' Villedo broke in; and then,
turning to Morenita, '_N'est-ce pas, ma belle creature_? But really'--he
turned to me again--'but very sincerely, all that there is of most
sincerely, dear madame, your libretto is made with a virtuosity
astonishing. It is _du theatre_. And with that a charm, an emotion...!
One would say--'

And so it continued, the flattering stream, while Diaz listened, touched,
and full of pride.

'Ah!' I said. 'It is not I