al
when I know you to be so sentimental?" Her voice was arch, an intimate
voice with liquid inflections. He began pacing the chilly floor of the
studio.

"Let us be frank. I've only known you two months, since the day we
accidentally met, leaving Paris for Bayreuth. You have written your
mother nothing of our engagement--well, provisional engagement, if you
will--and you insist on sticking to the operatic stage. I loathe it, and
I confess to you that I am sick with jealousy when I see you near that
lanky, ill-favored German tenor Burgmann." "What, poor, big me!" she
interjected, in teasing accents. "Yes, you, Fridolina. I can quite
sympathize with what you tell me of your mother's dislike for the role
of Isolde. You are not temperamentally suited to it; it is horrible to
think of you in that second act." "How horrible? My figure, you mean?"
"Yes, your figure, too, would be absurd." He was brutal now. "And you
haven't the passion to make anything of the music. You've never loved,
never will, passionately--" "But I'll sing Isolde all the same," she
cried. "Not with my permission." "Then without you and your permission."
She hastily arose and was about to step down from her pedestal when the
door opened.

"Mother! Why, mamma, you said you weren't coming until Sunday." Mrs.
Fridolin could not see very well in the heavy shadows after the blinding
sunlight without. "What are you doing here, Margaret, and of all things
alone up there on a throne! Is this a rehearsal for the opera?" "I'm not
alone, mother. This is Wenceslaus--Mr. Wenceslaus Arthmann, the
sculptor, mamma, and he is doing me in clay. Look at it; isn't it sweet?
Mr. Arthmann, this is my mother--and who is the young lady, mamma?"
"Oh, I forgot. I was so confused and put out not finding you at the
station I drove at once to Villa Wahnfried--" "Villa Wahnfried!" echoed
two voices in dismayed unison. "Yes, to Frau Cosima, and she directed me
here." "She directed you here?" "Yes, why shouldn't she? Is there
anything wrong in that?" asked the stately, high-nosed lady with the
gray pompadour, beginning to peer about suspiciously. "Oh, no, mamma,
but how did Frau Cosima know that I was here?" "I don't know, child,"
was the testy answer. "Come, get down and let me introduce you to my
charming travelling friend, Miss Bredd." "Miss Sais Bredd," put in the
Western girl; "I was named Sais after my father visited Egypt, but my
friends call me Louie."--"And Miss Bredd, this is