n
he had to sit still and drink--there was no other alternative. She asked
Viznina where he was born, where he had studied, and why he had changed
his name. The answers were those of a man in love with his art. Hinweg,
he explained, was his mother's name, and assumed because of the
anti-Slav prejudice existing in Vienna.

Calcraft broke in. "You say you are Bohemian, Herr Viznina? You are
really as Swedish looking as Mrs. Calcraft."

"What a Sieglinde she would make, with her beautiful blond complexion
and grand figure," returned the tenor with enthusiasm.

Tekla sighed for the third time that day. She burned to become a Wagner
singer. Had she not been a successful elocutionist in Minnesota? How
this talented young artist appreciated her gift, intuitively understood
her ambition! Calcraft noted that they looked enough alike to be brother
and sister; tall, fair and blue-eyed as they were. He laughed at the
conceit.

"You are both of the Woelfing tribe," he roared and ordered beer of
Magda. "I always drink dark beer after champagne, it settles the
effervesence," he argued.

"You can always drink beer, before and after anything, Cal," said his
wife in her sarcastic, vibrant voice.

The guest was hopelessly bored, but, being a man of will, he
concentrated his attention upon himself and grew more resigned. He did
not pretend to understand this rough-spoken critic, with his hatred of
Wagner and his contradictory Teutonic tastes. Tekla with eyes full of
beaming implications spoke:

"I should tell you, Cal, that Herr Viznina does not know, or else has
forgotten, which paper you write for, and I let him guess. He thinks you
praised his Siegmund."

"Saturday morning after the Tristan performance he will know for sure,"
answered the critic sardonically, drinking a stein of Wuerzburger.

"You rude man! of course he will know, and he will love you afterwards."
If Calcraft had been near enough she would have tapped him playfully on
the arm.

"Ah! Madame, what would we poor artists do if it were not for the
ladies, the kind, sweet American ladies?"

"That's just it," cried Calcraft.

"What an idea, Warrington Calcraft!" Tekla was thoroughly indignant.
"Never since I've known you have I attempted to influence you."

"You couldn't," said he.

"No, not even for poor Florence Deliba, who entered into a suicidal
marriage after she read your brutal notice of her debut."

"And a good thing it was for the operatic stage,"