ot quite the ordinary maid," I ventured.

"Yvette? No! I should think not. She has served half the sopranos in
Europe--she won't go to contraltos. I possess her because I outbid all
rivals for her services. As a hairdresser she is unequalled. And it's
so much nicer not being forced to call in a coiffeur in every town! It
was she who invented my 'Elsa' coiffure. Perhaps you remember it?"

"Perfectly. By the way, when do you recommence your engagements?"

She smiled nervously. "I--I haven't decided."

Nothing with any particle of significance passed during the remainder
of our interview. Telling her that I was leaving for England the next
day, I bade good-by to Rosa. She did not express the hope of seeing me
again, and for some obscure reason, buried in the mysteries of love's
psychology, I dared not express the hope to her. And so we parted,
with a thousand things unsaid, on a note of ineffectuality, of
suspense, of vague indefiniteness.

And the next morning I received from her this brief missive, which
threw me into a wild condition of joyous expectancy: "If you could
meet me in the Church of St. Gilles at eleven o'clock this morning, I
should like to have your advice upon a certain matter.--Rosa."

Seventy-seven years elapsed before eleven o'clock.

St. Gilles is a large church in a small deserted square at the back of
the town. I waited for Rosa in the western porch, and at five minutes
past the hour she arrived, looking better in health, at once more
composed and vivacious. We sat down in a corner at the far end of one
of the aisles. Except ourselves and a couple of cleaners, there seemed
to be no one in the church.

"You asked me yesterday about my engagements," she began.

"Yes," I said, "and I had a reason. As a doctor, I will take leave to
tell you that it is advisable for you to throw yourself into your work
as soon as possible, and as completely as possible." And I remembered
the similar advice which, out of the plenitude of my youthful wisdom,
I had offered to Alresca only a few days before.

"The fact is that I have signed a contract to sing 'Carmen' at the
Paris Opera Comique in a fortnight's time. I have never sung the role
there before, and I am, or rather I was, very anxious to do so. This
morning I had a telegram from the manager urging me to go to Paris
without delay for the rehearsals."

"And are you going?"

"That is the question. I may tell you that one of my objects in
calling on poor