"An improvement you think--eh?"

The singer laughed: "The way Perron jumped! Did you see him? With the
first note he gaped open-mouthed into the branches, and came within an
ace of dropping his sword. I chuckled aloud in the wings. Who is she,
Kapellmeister?"

"Good-night--good-night!" cried Ritter, "excuse me, but I am late and
in a hurry. This opera conducting is frightfully wearing; I am limp as
a rag. Good-night!" he ran on.

The doors of the dressing-rooms stood open, and he peered into them,
one after the other. In some the electric light was still on, and the
costumes were scattered about on the open trunks. The principals were
gone already, and most of the chorus; and the men of the orchestra went
hurrying by like shadows, with their instruments under their arms. In
the House itself, behind the asbestos curtain, which was lowering
slowly, came the sound of seats swinging back, and the voices of the
ushers as they rushed to and fro.

"Kaya!" called the Kapellmeister softly, "Where are you?" He hurried
from room to room.

The dressing-room of Madame Schultz was on the second floor, up a
short, winding stair-case, and the lights were turned low. Ritter
paused in the doorway.

The prima-donna was standing before the pier-glass, still in costume;
her soft, white robes trailed over the floor, and her red-blonde hair
hung to her waist. The helmet glittered on her head, and she held her
spear aloft as if about to utter the Walkuere cry. The figure was
superb, magnificent; a goddess at bay. And as the Kapellmeister stared
at her in astonishment, he saw that she was tense with emotion.

"Madame," he stammered, "You! You--still here?"

Her face was to the glass, her back to the door; she wheeled about
quickly and faced him: "Yes, I am here!" she cried, "Bruennhilde is
here! The House was cold to me to-night--they clapped Perron. It was
all Siegfried. They would have hissed me if they had dared." The
spear shook in her trembling hand.

"When my voice broke in the top notes, you could hear them whispering
in the loggias; didn't you hear them? 'She is old,' they said, 'she
can't sing any more, or act! She has no business to be here. Get us
another Bruennhilde!' And the stage hands looked at me pityingly. I
saw! Do you think I am blind and deaf as well as old? Look at me as I
stand here! I am Bruennhilde!"

The form of the singer was rigid, drawn to its height; the head thrown
back and