tarted, and for the first
time turned really angry.

"Will you give me the boy?" she said, shortly. "If he were here I might
show you how easily--But, _ciel!_ you could never understand such
things; let it pass. Will you give me the boy--yes or no?"

"No."

There was a silence. The diva lolled back on her cushions, and yawned.

"You must be a very selfish woman--I think the most selfish I have ever
known," she said coolly, tapping the floor with her little slippered
feet, as if keeping time to a waltz.

"I--selfish?"

"Yes, you--selfish. And, by the by, what right have you to keep the boy
at all? Certainly, he resembles you in nothing. What relation does he
hold to you?"

"He is--he is my ward," answered Miss Elisabetha, nervously rearranging
her scarf. "I bid you, madame, good day."

"Ward!" pursued Kernadi; "that means nothing. Was his mother your
sister?"

"Nay; his mother was a Spanish lady," replied the troubled one, who knew
not how to evade or lie.

"And the father--you spoke of him--was he a relative?"

A sudden and painful blush dyed the thin old face, creeping up to the
very temples.

"Ah," said the singer, with scornful amusement in her voice, "if that is
all, I shall take the boy without more ado"; and, lifting her glasses,
she fixed her eyes full on the poor face before her, as though it was
some rare variety of animal.

"You shall not have him; I say you shall not!" cried the elder woman,
rousing to the contest like a tigress defending her young.

"Will you let him choose?" said Kernadi, with her mocking laugh. "See! I
dare you to let him choose"; and, springing to her feet, she wheeled her
visitor around suddenly, so that they stood side by side before the
mirror. It was a cruel deed. Never before had the old eyes realized that
their mild blue had faded; that the curls, once so soft, had grown gray
and thin; that the figure, once sylph-like, was now but angles; and the
throat, once so fair, yellow and sinewed. It came upon her suddenly--the
face, the coloring, and the dress; a veil was torn away, and she saw it
all. At the same instant gleamed the golden beauty of the other, the
folds of her flowing robe, the mists of her laces. It was too much. With
ashen face the stricken woman turned away, and sought the door-knob; she
could not speak; a sob choked all utterance. Doro would choose.

But Cecile Kernadi rushed forward; her better nature was touched.

"No, no," she said impulsively, "