ite kid hand returned
to rest upon its fellow.

'How good you are!' cried Madame De Rosa gratefully, as she sat down on
the cane chair.

'Hum!' grunted Schreiermeyer, musically, as if he agreed with her.

'Miss Donne has a good soprano,' the teacher ventured to say after a
time.

'Ah?' ejaculated the manager in a tone of very indifferent
interrogation.

There was a little pause.

'Lyric,' observed Madame De Rosa, breaking the silence.

Another pause. Schreiermeyer seemed not to have heard, and neither
moved nor looked at the two.

'Lyric?' he inquired, suddenly, but with extreme softness.

'Lyric,' repeated Madame De Rosa, leaning forward a little, and fanning
herself violently.

Another pause.

'Thank God!' exclaimed Schreiermeyer, without moving, but so very
devoutly that Margaret stared at him in surprise.

Madame De Rosa knew that this also was an excellent sign; she looked at
Margaret and nodded energetically. Whatever Schreiermeyer might mean by
returning devout thanks to his Maker at that moment, the retired singer
was perfectly sure that he knew his business. He was probably in need
of a lyric soprano for the next season, and that might lead to an
immediate engagement for Margaret.

'How hot it is!' the latter complained, in an undertone. 'There is no
air at all here!'

The maids were mopping their faces with their handkerchiefs, and Madame
De Rosa's fan was positively whirring. Schreiermeyer seemed quite
indifferent to the temperature.

He must nevertheless have been reflecting on Margaret's last remark
when he slowly turned to her after a silence of nearly a minute.

'Have you a good action of the heart?' he inquired, precisely as a
doctor might have done.

'I don't know.' Margaret smiled. 'I don't know anything about my
heart.'

'Then it is good,' said the manager. 'It ought to be, for you have a
magnificent skin. Do you eat well and sleep well, always?'

'Perfectly. May I ask if you are a doctor?'

Madame De Rosa made furious signs to Margaret. A very faint smile
flitted over the manager's quiet face.

'Some people call me an executioner,' he answered, 'because I kill the
weak ones.'

'I am not afraid of work.' Margaret laughed.

'No. You will grow fat if you sing. You will grow very fat.' He spoke
thoughtfully. 'After you are forty,' he added, as if by way of
consolation.

'I hope not!' cried the young girl.

'Yes, you will. It is the outward sign of success in the profes