oked down at
her pretty, dimpled hands--the hands of a baby despite their
gladiatorial size.

"How you do flatter! All foreigners flatter American girls, don't they?
Now you know you don't think my shoulders magnificent, do you? And my
waist--O! Herr Arthmann, what shall I do with my waist? As Bruennhilde,
I'm all right to move about in loose draperies, but as Fricka, as
Gutrune--Gutrune who falls fainting beside Siegfried's bier! How must I
look on my back? Oh, dear! and I diet, never drink water at meals, walk
half the day and seldom touch a potato. And you know what that means in
Germany! There are times when to see a potato, merely hearing the word
mentioned, brings tears to my eyes. And yet I get no thinner--just look
at me!"

He did. Her figure was gigantic. She weighed much over two hundred
pounds, though the mighty trussing to which she subjected herself, and a
discreet manner of dressing made her seem smaller. Arthmann was
critical, and did not disguise the impossibility of the task. He had
determined on a head and bust, something heroic after the manner of a
sturdy Bruennhilde. The preparations were made, the skeleton, framework
of lead pipe for the clay, with crossbar for shoulders and wooden
"butterflies" in position. On the floor were water-buckets, wet cloths
and a vast amount of wet clay--clay to catch the fleshly exterior, clay
to imprison the soul--perhaps, of Fridolina. But nothing had been done
except a tiny wax model, a likeness full of spirit, slightly encouraging
to the perplexed artist. The girl was beautiful; eyes, hair, teeth,
coloring--all enticed him as man. As sculptor the shapeless, hopeless
figure was a thing for sack-like garments, not for candid clay or the
illuminating commentary of marble. She drew a silk shawl closer about
her bare shoulders.

"And Isolde--what shall I do? Frau Cosima says that I may sing it two
summers from now; but then she promised me Bruennhilde two years ago
after I had successfully sung Elsa. I know every note of 'Tristan,' for
I've had over a thousand piano rehearsals, and Herr Siegfried and Caspar
Dennett both say that in time it will be my great role." "Who was it you
mentioned besides the Prince Imperial?"--they always call Siegfried
Wagner the Prince Imperial or the Heir Apparent in Bayreuth--"Mr.
Dennett. He is the celebrated young American conductor--the only
American that ever conducted in Bayreuth. You saw him the other night at
Sammett's garden. Don