rishes of her fan to explain what it was
she thought. Remarkable things, doubtless; but I cannot answer for it,
for in the midst of the explanation the curtain rose again. "You can't
be a great artist without a great passion!" Madame Blumenthal was
affirming. Before I had time to assent Madame Patti's voice rose
wheeling like a skylark, and rained down its silver notes. "Ah, give me
that art," I whispered, "and I will leave you your passion!" And I
departed for my own place in the orchestra. I wondered afterwards
whether the speech had seemed rude, and inferred that it had not on
receiving a friendly nod from the lady, in the lobby, as the theatre was
emptying itself. She was on Pickering's arm, and he was taking her to
her carriage. Distances are short in Homburg, but the night was rainy,
and Madame Blumenthal exhibited a very pretty satin-shod foot as a reason
why, though but a penniless widow, she should not walk home. Pickering
left us together a moment while he went to hail the vehicle, and my
companion seized the opportunity, as she said, to beg me to be so very
kind as to come and see her. It was for a particular reason! It was
reason enough for me, of course, I answered, that she had given me leave.
She looked at me a moment with that extraordinary gaze of hers which
seemed so absolutely audacious in its candour, and rejoined that I paid
more compliments than our young friend there, but that she was sure I was
not half so sincere. "But it's about him I want to talk," she said. "I
want to ask you many things; I want you to tell me all about him. He
interests me; but you see my sympathies are so intense, my imagination is
so lively, that I don't trust my own impressions. They have misled me
more than once!" And she gave a little tragic shudder.

I promised to come and compare notes with her, and we bade her farewell
at her carriage door. Pickering and I remained a while, walking up and
down the long glazed gallery of the Kursaal. I had not taken many steps
before I became aware that I was beside a man in the very extremity of
love. "Isn't she wonderful?" he asked, with an implicit confidence in my
sympathy which it cost me some ingenuity to elude. If he were really in
love, well and good! For although, now that I had seen her, I stood
ready to confess to large possibilities of fascination on Madame
Blumenthal's part, and even to certain possibilities of sincerity of
which my appreciation was v