Painted Veils

he initial twist of her ship's wheel, and the commonplace happenings which followed h

now falling in the foggy river. Her baggage had been checked to the hotel and she had nothing to do but climb into a hansom and direct the driver to west 25th Street. She made a tentative bargain with the man. Easter was prudent because she had little money. The hotel-it was in reality two old-fashioned houses with hig

d been engaged for a month ahead through the aid of a common fr

ays. We did not expect you till next week." The look of disma

u will like it. It will cost you only five dollars a day, tout compris. Do you spe

-" she s

next week," said the too confidential gossip. Easter handed her a tip and she bowed herself out. The chandelier gave plenty of light. There were bookcases. Much music. On the walls hung photographs of composers. Evidently the apartment of a musical person. She looked out of a window. An extension with skylights, and a noise of clattering dishes coupled with certain odours, not disagreeable to her nostrils, told her that the cuisine of th

longer existed to bother about the exclusiveness of an hotel. Her glance traversed the lighted roof of t

ork. The situation was almost melodramatic. That snowstorm viewed in the aperture between two buildings, and from the win

swer, but from the sounds of talking and general bustle she knew that dinner was served. Another embarrassment. How to enter a dining-room full of strangers? Easter was a well-bred young woman, but not accustomed to the world; above all, to a Bohemian world. At the Maison Felicé, she had been informed, that the guests were celebrated. Singers, painters, actors, musicians there congregated. A perfect Bohemia where she would rub elbows, ev

many gestures. He was Proven?al, his wife Swiss. He stared at the girl. She was pretty, though not to his taste. He preferred blondes. She sat herself at a table near the short flight of steps that led from the foyer to the salle-à-manger. She was alone. Soon her soup was served. It was like wine to

trifle formal. He looked about forty and was barely thirty. A young-old man, worn, though not precisely dissipated looking. Easter didn't know

inger, Miss Brandès. Brandès!

as born in Virginia. So was I. He may have had Jewish blood

h writer is a Jew, and there is Marthe Brand

errupted Easter. "Is she a grea

His dark eyes glowed. He almost became animated. Easter listened with curiosity. A man who spo

actresses to pass such a judg

ic of the theatre and musi

. How nice." His d

ut it?" he asked

the great singe

, Lilli Lehmann, Brandt, the De Reszkes, get on my nerves. You can have to

e you after?" he deman

dramatic soprano," she

afed. "Rather a

it," she retorted. He

dramatic temperament, and beauty-you are well supplied in that-" he gallantly bowed-"Thank you," said the gi

t an Italian accent, he meant?"-"No, with a Tuscan accent," the girl proudly replied; "and I'm a trained mu

. Universal genius. And you couldn't compose a r?le any more than you could cook your husband's dinner-if you were unl

voured food." They had not reached coffee. The sweets were insignificant. Easter positively became buoyant. She must have had Celtic in her, she went from the cellar to the clouds and the clouds to the cella

some older than myself. I began singing, in the cradle, mother said. Poor dear mother. She was so wrapped up in my musical career." (He thought: "They all say the same things ...

astidious demands. They were not full-orbed, rather small, deep-set, and he couldn't make up his mind whether in colour they were dark-blue or dark-green; at times they seemed both; but they went well with the blue-black hair coiled about a wide low forehead. The nose was too large for canonic beauty; but it was boldly jutting, not altogether aquiline, a good rudder for a str

if your voice is as good as you believe it to be. La Fursch has a class two afternoons in the week at the Conservatoire Cosmopolitaine, and as I know Madame Mayerbeer the director, I could give you a letter to her; better still, I could take you to her and introduce you, that is if you care to go." He

Pleurez, mes yeux from the Cid, or Printemps from Samson et Dalila is something to remember. The true Gallic tradition, broad and dramatic, with justesse in expression. Ah! Only Lilli is her superior." Out of breath, he paused.

aced to perfection. I don't think there will be much trouble about Madame Fursch. However, Mr. Stone, if it is allowed in this hotel, I occupy a parlour and there is a piano

ve Invern's place, haven't you?"

rn?" she mil

ork stock, but a confirmed Parisian. So am I, poor devil, that I am. But he is rich, at least well-to-do, and I must make my salt writing for t

ruity, lots of colour, velvety. But

y answered: "Mrs.

rd for it, Miss-Miss-" he hesitated. "Esther Brandès-my friends nickname me Easter, and I answer to that," she confessed. "Well, Miss Easter, I'm not so sure that your self-confidence-egotism is sometimes a form of genius you know-isn't justified. You have voice, presence, intelligence, ambition. Good Lord! a lo

she quickly resp

ach you to sing in every language-but your own. Madame Mayerbeer is Gallic or nothing." He made a formal bow and took his leave. Easter stood at the pianoforte dreaming. Was it, after all, coming, the realization of her moth