with Richetti's hand held in
her own. The man was beaming, delighted.

"Come with me," I cried to Porter. "We are to be allowed back of the
stage. She's expecting us. Did you see Richetti's look of pride? You're
far more responsible for this result than he, bless your heart! Come
along."

And so we made our way to a large room at the back of the hall. It was
much crowded with women in gorgeous dresses and men among whom I
recognized Bartolo Cenci of the Metropolitan and Colonel Duff, the great
impresario of con-certs and lecture tours, and the shrewd features of
FitzMaurice the musical critic of the _Banner_, small, hawk-eyed and of
bustling manner.

In a corner, with Frieda at her side, stood Frances, with a little court
surrounding her. Richetti, a few paces away, was talking volubly with
men, who were probably of the Press. We went to the new diva, who did
not await our coming, but stepped towards us, with both hands extended.

"I'll tell you later all that I feel, Dave," she half whispered to me.
"Oh! Dr. Porter, dear friend, I am so glad that you have been able to
see the results of your work. Come with me!"

She took him by the arm and led him to Richetti.

"Professor, I want to present Dr. Porter. I could not sing a note, and
he worked marvels upon me; gave me a new throat, I think, and a better
one than ever."

Upon this, the _maestro_ nearly fell on Porter's neck and wept, calling
him a savior and a performer of miracles, after which he insisted on
introducing him to a number of the eager gatherers of information and to
Bartolo Cenci, who wrote down his address on his cuff. Our good little
Porter was nearly overwhelmed.

Finally a number of us were haled off to Richetti's rooms where a great
table was set with flasks of _Chianti_ and a huge Milanese _risotto_,
and it was nearly two o'clock before we packed ourselves in a taxi,
feeling as if such a superfluous thing as sleep could be put off till
the Greek Kalends.

Frieda refused to be dropped off at her flat. Porter was also compelled
to come to the top of the little brownstone house. We did our best to be
quiet in going up, and I hope we awoke no honest sleepers. They crowded
into my room, Frances leaving us to see that Baby Paul was thriving. She
returned on tiptoe.

"Eulalie is snoring on the sofa," she announced, "and Baby is sleeping
like an angel."

So we remained there for an hour, at least, and Frieda told us how
Colonel Duff had rushed