g on; he lent himself altogether to the delight of
Margaret's voice, and dreamt that she was singing only for him in some
vast and remote place where they were quite alone together.

The rehearsal went on by fits and starts; some scenes were repeated,
others were left out; at intervals the conductor rapped his desk
nervously and abused somebody, or spoke with great affability to
Margaret, or with the familiarity of long acquaintance to one of the
other singers. Logotheti did not notice these interruptions, for his
sensitiveness was not of the sort that suffers by anything which must
be and therefore should be; it was only the unnecessary that disturbed
him--the tenor's white waistcoat and dangling gold chain. While
Margaret was singing, the illusion was perfect; the rest was a blank,
provided that nothing offended his eyes.

The end was almost reached at last. There was a pause.

'Will you try the trio to-day?' inquired the conductor of Margaret. 'Or
are you tired?'

'Tired?' Margaret laughed. 'Go on, please.'

Now Marguerite's part in the trio, where she sings 'Anges pures,'
repeating the refrain three times and each time in a higher key, is one
of the most sustained high pieces ever written for a woman's voice; and
Logotheti, listening, suddenly shut out his illusions and turned
himself into a musical critic, or at least into a judge of singing.

Not a note quavered, from first to last; there was not one sound that
was not as true as pure gold, to the very end, not one tone that was
forced, either, in spite of the almost fantastic pitch of the last
passage.

It is not often that everybody applauds a singer at a rehearsal of
_Faust_, which has been sung to death for five-and-forty years; but as
the trio ended, and the drums rolled the long knell, there was a shout
of genuine enthusiasm from the little company on the stage.

'Vive la Cordova! Vive la Diva!' yelled the tenor, and he threw up his
pot hat almost to the border lights, quite forgetting to be
indifferent.

'Brava, la Cordova!' boomed the bass, with a tremendous roar.

'Brava, brava, brava!' shouted all the lesser people at the back of the
stage.

Little Madame De Rosa was in hysterics of joy, and embraced everybody
and everything in her way till she came to Margaret and reached the
climax of embracing in a perfect storm of tears. By this time the tenor
and bass were kissing Margaret's gloved hands with fervour and every
one was pressing round he