ven if that garden
was in Bayreuth. Suppose some of her New York friends should happen
by!... "I wonder where he has gone? I don't admire your new friend,
Margaret. He seems very careless," she grumbled.

"Wenceslaus!"--Mrs. Fridolin looked narrowly at her daughter--"Mr.
Arthmann, then, will be back soon. Like all sculptors he hates to be
cooped up long." "I guess he's gone to get a drink at the bar,"
suggested the practical Miss Bredd. "How did you like my Fricka--oh,
here's Mr. Dennett--Caspar, Caspar come over here, here!" The big girl
stood up in elephantine eagerness, and a jaunty, handsome young man,
with a shaven face and an important chin, slowly made his way through
the press of people to the Fridolin table. It was Caspar Dennett, the
conductor. After a formal presentation to the tall, thin Mrs. Fridolin,
the young American musician settled himself for a talk and began by
asking how they liked his conducting. He had been praised by the Prince
Imperial himself--praise sufficient for any self-doubting soul! Thank
heaven, _he_ had no doubt of his vocation! It was Miss Bredd who
answered him:

"I enjoyed your conducting immensely, Mr. Dennett, simply because I
couldn't see you work those long arms of yours.... I wrote lots about
you when you visited the West with your band. I never cared for your
Wagner readings." He stared at her reproachfully and she stared in
return. Then he murmured, "I'm really very sorry I didn't please you,
Miss Bredd. I didn't know that you were a newspaper woman." "Journalist,
if you please!" "I beg your pardon, journalist. I'm so sorry that Mrs.
Dennett is visiting relations in England. She would have been delighted
to call on you;"--Miss Bredd's expression became disagreeable--"and now,
Mrs. Fridolin, what do you think of your daughter, your daughter Fricka
Fridolina, as we call her? Won't she be a superb Isolde some day?" "I
hope not, Mr. Dennett," austerely replied the mother. Margaret grasped
his hands gratefully, crying aloud, "You dear! Isn't he a dear, mamma?
Only think of your daughter as Isolde. Ah! there comes the deserter. You
thoughtless man!"

The sculptor bowed stiffly when presented, and the two men sat on either
side of Miss Fridolin, far away from each other.

"Mr. Arthmann," fluted the singer--she was all dignity now--"Mr. Dennett
thinks I'm quite ready for Isolde." "You said that to me this
afternoon," he answered in a rude manner. The conductor glanced at him
and