The Red Book Magazine/Volume 16/Number 1/The Other Woman

HEY sat opposite each other before the brightly burning fire and listened to the rumble and rattle in the street below. A clock ticked peacefully on the mantlepiece, and from time to time the man and the boy glanced up at the slowly moving hands and then at each other.

“She must be here in a minute,” the boy said, with an uncontrollable movement of impatience. “It's over at eleven—half an hour to change, a quarter of an hour to drive here, that makes a quarter to twelve—yes, she ought to be here in five minutes.”

“You leave no margin for accidents or delays, Dicky,” the man observed, smiling faintly. “The mother usually requires more than half an hour to change, you know.”

“Not to-night!” was the quick answer. “She will know how anxious we are and will hurry for all she is worth. By Jove! I wish I had been there. I can fairly hear the people cheering and clapping, can't you? There's no one can sing like the mother, is there?”

“No one,” the man agreed gravely.

Somehow the tone of the reply seemed to trouble his companion. He scrambled out of the arm-chair in which he had been comfortably curled and stood with his back to the fire, looking his father earnestly in the face.

“You think it's all right—that it's a sure thing?” he asked.

The man lifted his eyes from their dreamy contemplation of the flames and looked at the young upright figure in the Eton suit. The Eton suit shone too brightly at the elbows to be elegant, but the face atoned for all other deficiencies. It was a twelve-year-old edition of his own face, without the lines of care and illness, but strong, bold, and handsome in its fearless honesty.

“I hope it's all right, old chap,” he said, “You know, everybody in this world has a different opinion, and though, of course, we are quite right in saying that no one sings like the mother, still, we can't prevent other people from thinking—”

He stopped short. His son's lips had parted, his whole attitude showed that he was not listening to him but to the sounds in the street.

Che next moment with a joyful, ungrammatical cry “It's her!” he sprang over the foot-stool, over a chair, and down the stairs three steps at a time.

Richard Angus, senior, listened to the clatter with a half-melancholy, half-whimsical line about the mouth. He held out his hands to the blaze and began to sing in an undertone, carefully, anxiously, as if he were testing his own voice. It was a rich tenor, but after the first few bars it broke and he sprang to his feet with a smothered exclamation of pain and irritation.

“My God, how long will it last?” he muttered despairingly. “How long must I be a helpless dependent? How long—”

He clenched his teeth on the last bitter complaint and turned, the expression of his face softening as if by magic.

“Nina!” he cried.

Dicky, flushed and breathless, had re-entered the room, but this time he was not alone. A woman stood beside him on the threshold, her arm about his shoulder, her eyes smiling an answering welcome. The bright hair was disordered, the fine though irregular features still bore the traces of paint and powder, and the opera cloak hung from her shoulders as if it had been snatched up in reckless haste. Yet there was a resolute dignity in her bearing and the determined set of the fine mouth made it seem almost hard.

Her husband came unsteadily towards her and she met him half way, resting against his shoulder with a sigh of weariness.

“Oh, I am so glad to be home!” she murmured. “So glad!”

He held her closer with a nervous strength.

“How was it?” he asked. “Did everything go well?”

“Yes. very well. I have never sung better—it was for you and Dicky and my whole soul was in it. And the people cheered me. It was grand—for after all they had never heard of me before.”

“And Herr Grimm—the manager?”

“He, too, was delighted. He congratulated me warmly.”

He looked down into her face and saw that her eyes did not reflect the triumph of her words; they were grave, overcast

“So it's all right—you will be engaged for the next season? The contract is signed?” he questioned.

“No, the contract is not signed,” came the slow answer.

“Why not?”

“Herr Grimm said he was sorry—he could decide nothing until to-morrow night. To-morrow night Senora Veroni is singing 'Carmen.' When he has heard her, he will decide between us.”

“Veroni?” he echoed, doubtfully.

“She is well-known on the Continent and you know her, too—under another name.”

She turned and bent tenderly over the boy beside her.

“Dicky, go to bed now, there's a dear fellow. It's late for you and I have something I must talk to your father about.”

“Can't I talk, too, mother?” he asked.

She laughed at his tone of wounded dignity.

“No. I know you are the Grand Counsellor and Wise Man of the family, but this time we must try and get on without you. I will come and say good-night later on.”

She kissed him and for a moment he held her by the shoulders, looking questioningly into the grave eyes.

“Mother—then it isn't quite all right?”

“Not quite. You mayn't believe it, but it seems there is actually someone more wonderful than I am—a great rival.”

He shook his head.

“I don't believe it,” he said, stubbornly. “And anyhow, it's all right so long as we three keep together, isn't it?”

“Yes, dear, yes.”

He went off obediently, his head lifted, his shoulders thrown back, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. There was a whole world of challenge in his attitude and she watched him, half-smiling, until the door had closed upon him.

Then she went to her husband.

He had gone back to the fire and was seated with his face between his hands, gazing moodily before him.

Her touch, as she laid her arm about his neck, was tender and almost pitying.

“Dear,” she said, “I think I ought to tell you—the Veroni has another name, one that you know very well.”

“What name?”

He looked up and their eyes met in a flash of painful understanding.

“Your name, husband.”

“You mean—Dicky's mother—my wife?”

“Dicky's mother and your wife that was,” she corrected, proudly.

He rose to his feet and stood with her hand clasped between his own. His face had grown older and grayer, as if a shadow from the long past had fallen upon it, and she saw that his lips were tightly compressed.

“What tricks Fate plays with us!” he said, under his breath. “That she of all people should cross our path now!”

For a moment she did not speak, then she changed her position so that they stood opposite each other.

“Richard,” she began, “hitherto I have never asked you about the past. I was content when you told me that—that the other woman had played a part in your life and that it had been a tragic failure. I loved you and I loved your baby child and that was all that mattered. Now—the other woman and I have been fated to meet on another field—and I want to know—I have become curious. Will you tell me, or will it be too painful for you?”

He patted her hand absently.

“Even if it were painful you have the right to know,” he said.

“When I married Violetta Andrée as she then called herself,” he began, “I was scarcely out of my twenties—a young fool, mad over my profession. She had the voice of an angel—yes, of an angel,” he repeated, with a curious inflection of enthusiasm. “There was no woman in Europe who could sing as she could—not even you, my wife. Nina, I don't need to tell you all that happened. It was a ghastly, awful mistake. At the end of the first year—after Dicky was born—I knew the truth. The angel was a devil and my life ruined beyond all hope.”

He stopped a moment, as if overwhelmed by painful memories, and then went on with a voice that he strove to render unmoved.

“For another year I did my best. I fought against her—God knows, I fought for her against her worse self, but it was of no good. At first she laughed at my warnings—and then she grew to hate me. In her hatred she knew neither pity nor justice. She dragged me down, lower and lower, until, in desperation, I freed myself from her. I had the right and it seemed to me my duty to myself—above all to Dicky. But my career, my life, were ruined. And then you came.”

In spite of his efforts his voice broke, and taking her face between his hands he kissed her in a kind of desperate passion of gratitude.

“My salvation, you came! You took the ruined man and the motherless baby into your strong, pure hands and lifted both out of the mire to another life, a fresh hope. Why did you do it, Nina? Why did you do it?”

“Because I loved you both,” she explained simply.

“And your reward?” He half-turned from her with a movement of profound bitterness. ““A few years of peace and success, and then—a broken man who cannot help himself, who must depend on a woman—his wife—”

“Don't!” she interrupted, sternly. “Why do you talk like that? Next year your voice will come back—the doctor said so—and you will be the world's darling as you were before.”

“My voice!” He laughed. “Oh, yes, it will come back—if I go abroad, if I rest, if I take care, if I live in the lap of ease and luxury. And I—improvident fool that I am—cannot even buy food to feed my wife and child.”

“Then it is my place to help you!” she cried, triumphantly. “If I get the engagement all will be well—”

“If! Nina, my little woman, you have no chance against her. I tell you, no one can sing as she can when she will.”

“And she was a bad woman?”

“Nina—I haven't the right to throw stones—perhaps I goaded her sometimes—but as the world judges—yes, she was a bad woman.”

She nodded and stood leaning against his shoulder. The momentary look of doubt and uncertainty had gone out of her eyes, which shone brightly in the glow of the firelight.

“Richard,” she said, “you are not to despair. Whatever happens we can but do our best. And we three will hold together to the very end. Then nothing really bad can happen to us, can it?”

“God bless you, Nina!” he said, brokenly.

They stood an instant, clasped in each other's arms, and then Nina Angus drew quickly back

Someone had knocked at the door and the next moment a tired, slatternly looking servant made her appearance.

“There's a lidy downstairs 'oo wants to speak to you, missis,” she said, sleepily. “I told 'er it was far too late, but she said it was very important and so I took 'er into the parlor. Wot shall I do with 'er, please?”

Nina looked at her husband, her fine brows, her puckered mouth, her eyes dark with anxious thought. Then she nodded resolutely, as if in answer to some unspoken question.

“I will see her,” she said.

The two women confronted each other without greeting. The light from the cheap kerosene lamp, which the servant had placed upon the table, reflected a yellow light up into the visitor's face. She was standing with her head bent, toying petulantly with the fringe of the opera cloak which hung from her bare white shoulders, but as Nina entered she looked up and her expression changed.

A cool, supercilious interest crept over the flushed, coarse features, the over-brilliant eyes flashed with a disagreeable amusement.

“You are Mrs. Angus, I presume?”

“Yes. You wish to speak to me?”

“That's what I came for. I sent a note round to your dressing-room telling you to wait, but when I came you had flown and so I just flew after you. It's quite simple.”

The visitor's voice rang hard and unpleasant and she spoke loudly, as if she wished to be heard outside the room.

Nina closed the door quietly behind her.

“It would have been better if you had waited,” she said.

“No doubt it would have been better for you. But I'm not such a fool. I strike while the iron is hot.”

She looked about her, taking in the poor furniture, the unmistakable signs of struggle, with an unconcealed satisfaction.

“And so this is the home of Richard Angus, the spoiled child of fortune!” she remarked sneeringly.

Nina came a step further into the room.

“This is our home,” she said.

The color had died out of her cheeks. She looked pale and care-worn; her beauty faded before the other's coarse splendor, but her eyes had become brilliant.

“Bad times, eh?” her visitor asked.

“That concerns us alone.”

“On the contrary—it concerns me also.” She laughed again. “You see, I happen to have had the honor of being Richard's wife and I am Dicky's mother. You can't argue that fact out of the world. Consequently, I have the right to be interested. That's one of the reasons I have come myself instead of waiting for your most gracious answer. I wanted to see what sort of a woman Richard's second choice was. I suppose he had had enough of the devil and has tried the woolly lamb and bread and milk. How does he like it?”

Nina's face remained unmoved.

“Have you only come here to be insulting?” she asked quietly.

“No, you can bet your bottom dollar on that. I've come on strict business. They say that my old pious Richard is in a bad way. Is that true?”

Nina hesitated and then answered with an effort.

“He has been very ill.”

“He wont be able to sing again?”

“We hope—next year with care—”

“With care!”

She threw up her head and sniffed the smoky atmosphere. “In this hole I should lose my voice in a week, And I dare say he doesn't get enough to eat, either, poor fellow. Does my baby Dicky get the scraps?”

Nina made no answer. She turned as if to go to the door, but her visitor detained her with a theatrical gesture of command.

“There's no object in your getting into a rage,” she said, coolly. “I don't blame you for hating me and my boy into the bargain. Frankly, I hate you, and if you and Richard had children, I should wish them at the bottom of the sea with my whole heart. It's quite natural and right that it should be so. We were destined to be rivals, otherwise we shouldn't be matched against each other behind the footlights. I heard you sing to-night. You sing well but not so well as I do—not enough temperament, devil, or whatever you like to call it; too much of the woolly-lamb and bread and butter respectability about it. I'm afraid you haven't much chance against me.”

She waited an instant, and then as Nina made no answer a deeper flush mounted the florid face.

“No doubt Richard tells you differently,” she went on tauntingly. “No doubt he tells you I haven't got a voice at all and pours over you all the compliments with which I used to be regaled. I know his sort. But it wont help him or you, either. The public prefers the devil and Herr Grimm knows it.”

“In that case your triumph will be complete,” Nina answered, quietly.

For a moment her rival measured her with angry admiration, then she shrugged her shoulders.

“What will you do then—starve?”

“That, at least, is our concern.”

“Poor Richard! He wont [sic] like starving much.”

She sat fidgeting with the rings upon her thick overloaded fingers, and then she looked up cunningly.

“We had better get to business,” she said. “If you told the truth, you would admit that your Richard's whole future hangs on this engagement. I have a sure tip that if anything went wrong with me you would be chosen, but I tell you candidly, that, as things are, you haven't a chance. I stand in your daylight, and unless I have good reason for changing my mind, I shall go on standing there. It depends on you, whether I change my mind or not.”

“On me?”

“Give me back my son and I'll leave the road clear for you!”

For a full moment neither spoke. Nina Angus stared sightlessly before her. Her pulses were beating; a vision of peace and plenty, of a man freed from care, winning his way back to health and success rose before her. She saw the end of a long bitter struggle, the dawning of a new life. And then she saw Dicky. He came before her mental vision in the same moment that her eyes fell on the face opposite her own.

In the coarse painted features she read a greedy eagerness, an ugly triumph, and with a shock of recollection Nina remembered her husband's words, “Yes, a bad woman.” The cloak had fallen from the massive shoulders; diamonds flashed on the thick neck, on the arms, from the ears beneath the waves of stiffly curled hair; an atmosphere of vulgarity—or worse—seemed to surround her and fill the room with a heavy, overpowering perfume. And Dicky? She sought to trace a likeness and found none. Dicky was his father's son—this woman belonged to another world and she would drag the boy, as she had dragged her husband down into the mire of her own life.

Nina Angus lifted her head higher. The moment's hesitation was over. The boy was hers—she had won him fairly by her love, by years of faithful, unswerving devotion. This woman had forfeited all right.

“Why do you want Dicky?” she demanded, and a faint, unconscious scorn sounded through her words.

“He is my son—no law on earth can alter that.”

“You do not love him.”

The Veroni stamped her foot.

“What is that to you?” she cried, violently. “I need him—I want him. I want to get him out of your hands—I want to give him a decent time—I can afford it. I shall bring him up like a prince—not in this beggary.”

“He shall live an honest life as his father has done,” Nina interrupted “That is all that matters.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I wont give Dicky up to you—not for the whole world. We three must keep together.”

The half-unconscious echo of the boy's words gave her. the strength to face the uncontrolled passion which broke like a storm from the painted lips.

The Veroni leaned across the table and shook her fist in the white face of her enemy. The thin varnish of culture and refinement—such as it was—was gone; the natural savage brutality of her nature had broken down every barrier of self-control.

“You hypocrite—you pitiful little hypocrite! What are you playing that high tragedy for? What more do you want for him? Haven't I offered enough? Do you want money as well? There—take all that—they're worth thousands—take them and give me my son!”

There was something more than rage in the high voice, in the gesture with which she tore the diamonds from her fingers and arms, but Nina did not hear it. With a calm dignity she pushed aside the dazzling pile of gems which the woman had flung upon the table.

“I said 'not for the whole world,'” she reminded her, “and you have no claim. You forfeited your rights years ago and I have won mine in those years. You went out of Dicky's life of your own free will—you cannot come back now.”

For a moment she thought the clenched fist would have struck her, but with an effort the Veroni recovered herself. Contemptuously she began to gather up the rings and bracelets, but her lips were trembling with rage.

“As you like,” she said. “You can make your choice. If I do not hear from you by to-morrow afternoon, I shall out-sing you. By—I'll use every power on earth to make you impossible; I'll ruin you! Mark what I say!”

“You must do as you think best,” was the quiet answer.

The Veroni swept past the fearless, upright figure and out of the room. Down below, in the street, a man in evening dress awaited her. Without a word he helped her into the carriage and sprang in beside her.

“Well?” he queried, nonchalantly, as they rattled out of the street into the great thoroughfare.

“They wont give him up,” she said.

“I thought not. And, anyhow, what does it matter? What do you want with the brat?”

She gnawed her under lip.

“Perhaps I wanted him to keep between me and the devil.”

“Do you mean your humble servant by any chance?”

“Perhaps I do—who knows?”

They both laughed but her laughter sounded dry and hard.

“Supposing you come and have a rattling champagne supper with the Devil?” he suggested. “Wont that make up?”

“No,” she said between her teeth. “To-morrow I am going to sing. I must sing better than I have ever done. After that—bah—yes! Why not?”

“So it's war to the knife?” he asked, chuckling.

“To the knife!' she echoed.

The Veroni sat before the looking-glass in her dressing-room and smeared on the paint with a practiced hand. Her Carmen costume hung over the back of her chair and she herself was in a disorderly negligée. The man in the easy chair watched her with an insolent interest which did not seem in the least to disconcert her.

“I'll bet you'll wake them up to-night,” he remarked, as she leaned back, sighing with satisfaction. “You are a devil, Vi, if anybody is. I believe the thought that you are 'doing' your late lamented and his new partner is just like a spur to you. Women are queer creatures. What are you so spiteful about, I wonder?”

“I wonder!” she echoed, ironically.

And then bringing her clenched fist down on the table in a sudden gust of temper:

“What's there to wonder about? He drive me wrong with his goody-goody ways and his eternal preaching—and then they took the boy from me. They had no right to, but they took him and—” She tossed her head. “I hate that woman. No doubt she tells him lies about me—sets his heart against me—makes out I am the devil incarnate—”

“Well, aren't you?” he interposed, laughing.

“Yes, I am now. That's why I'm going to pay them out. Wait and see! I'll drive them into a corner; I'll humble them. I'll have that boy yet and bring him up as I like. I'll make him a devil, too, if it's only to spite them—”

She stopped short, choking with inarticulate rage. Her cheeks were purple, her eyes blazing and there was something tigerish in her attitude which made her companion instinctively draw back.

“By Jove! You vixen!” he said, half laughing.

“Bah!” she said. “I am a fool to excite myself. It will spoil my voice. Give me that some of wine over there and open the door, there's a good boy. Someone is knocking.”

He obeyed her, and while she was pouring herself out a glass from the half empty bottle, he went to the curtained doorway and for a moment disappeared. The Veroni sat and sipped at the strong liquid, humming snatches of her part and glancing at herself in the glass with a critical interest. Close to she looked coarse and vulgar, but she knew that viewed from the gallery, even from the dress circle, she was still beautiful and the knowledge gave her a vicious satisfaction.

“Well, what is it?” she asked, as her companion came back to her side.

“Something that will interest you,” he answered with a grimace: “Here! The porter said he wouldn't have bothered you only you had told him that if anyone of that name—”

She snatched the card from him and read the inscription with an ill-suppressed excitement. She laughed shrilly and triumphantly.

“It's old Richard himself! Come to eat humble-pie! Stay there, if- you want a real bit of domestic comedy.”

“Oh, I'll stay all right,” he said.

He seated himself on the arm of the easy-chair, admiring his elegantly booted feet with languid indifference.

“Show Mr. Angus in!” he called.

There was a moment's silence, as if someone were hesitating outside. Then the curtain parted.

The man on the chair did not look up. Perhaps he did not feel himself altogether very comfortable, or perhaps his boots proved too absorbing. At any rate, it was a startled exclamation which first compelled him to raise his eyes to the newcomer. Then he suppressed an oath of surprise.

A small boy in a carefully brushed Eton suit stood on the threshold, looking from one to the other with a curious mixture of bewilderment and disappointment on his flushed face.

“I beg your pardon,” he stammered. “Perhaps there is some mistake—”

The man pulled himself up casually from his insolent lounging attitude. The Veroni drew her laces about her shoulders, and with a hasty, instinctive movement shifted the half-empty bottle behind the looking-glass.

“I expected a Mr. Angus,” she said, curtly. “Who are you?”

“I am Mr. Angus—junior,” he explained. “I took one of father's cards. I hope it doesn't matter.”

She had taken a quick step forward and now stood staring at him with hungry, triumphant eyes.

“No, it doesn't matter,” she said. “And there's no mistake, Dicky. You were sent to see me, weren't you?”

She held out her hand as if to draw him to her, but he held himself erect and stiff.

“My name is Richard Angus,” he said, severely. “And I have not been sent. I came all by myself.” Then, as if he feared to have offended her, he added hastily, “You see, only mother calls me Dicky.”

The Veroni sank back in her chair. The moment's confusion was over. Her attitude alone expressed determination.

“I shall call you what I like,” she said, and then after a moment: “So you came all by yourself? That means you know all about me?”

“Oh, yes, mother and father talk a great deal about you. You are the great singer who is to sing to-night, aren't you?”

“The great singer? Yes—I suppose I am. Is that all you know?”

His eyes opened wider with surprise.

“Yes, that's all.”

“Then they never told you that—”

She broke off. His frank, open gaze seemed to trouble her. A dark flush mounted her cheeks.

“You mustn't stare so, Dicky,” she said, with an awkward laugh. “What's wrong?”

He made no answer. He was looking from her to the man, and his grave face betrayed a doubt which she seemed to understand.

“Haven't I introduced you?” she cried hilariously. “That comes of not living with your father, dear fellow—one gets so slack with one's P's and Q's. Permit me—Mr. Richard Angus, Junior—the Count—”

She stopped again. Her eyes met the boy's, wavered and fell.

“—my husband,” she finished slowly.

The Count laughed.

Dicky bowed but he did not offer his hand.

“I am glad to meet you, Mr. Veroni,” he said.

Then he turned back to the woman.

“It's awfully good of you to see me,” he said. “You see, no one knows I have come, not even mother—”

She sprang up violently, as if the name goaded her.

“Why do you call her mother?” she demanded. “She isn't your mother. Your mother—”

“—is dead,” he interrupted with a grave inclination.

“Dead!” she echoed.

“Yes, she died when I was quite a baby, you know.”

The Veroni came slowly to his side. She put her hands on his shoulders and looked down into his up-turned face. Her own face had suddenly lost all color.

“Is that all you know of her, Dicky?” she asked. “What else have they told you?”

She felt how he stiffened under her touch.

“I don't like talking about my mother to—to strangers,” he stammered.

“But I'm not a stranger, Dicky! I'm—at least—you see, I knew your mother.”

“Did you?”

In an instant his whole expression changed. The smothered distrust and antagonism in his eyes changed to a frank delight.

“Now I know why you called me Dicky. How splendid! Then you can tell me all about her!

“Look, I have her photo. I always carry it with me.”

He fumbled at his breast-pocket and drew out an untidy piece of pasteboard.

“Isn't it good?” he asked.

She took it from him. The picture was old and faded. It represented a young and lovely girl, a bundle of music in her hand, surrounded by a garland of artificial roses. The Veroni looked up and saw her own face reflected in the glass. There was no resemblance left—none. Twelve years had gone by, twelve years of hard, wild living and they had done their work.

“It is a good likeness,” she said, mechanically.

He nodded and put the photograph carefully back in his pocket.

“Wasn't she beautiful?” he said, in a tone of mingled awe and enthusiasm. “Mother is always saying how beautiful and good she was and how I must grow up to be like her—good, you know.”

“Good!” she repeated, blankly.

The man behind her smothered a laugh.

Dicky swung round upon him, his cheeks blazing with anger.

“Why do you laugh? Did you know her, too?”

There was a fierce challenge in his voice and a curious note of alarm.

The Veroni leaned forward. She looked at the man and the sneering laugh died on his lips.

“My husband did not know her as I know her,” she said, slowly and distinctly. “He cannot tell you—how good she was.”

She drew Dicky gently to her so that she stood between them. He felt her hands shake.

“Do you love your mother?” she asked.

“Rather—at least—” He hesitated. “as much as one can love anyone one hasn't seen, you know,” he finished.

“Because she was beautiful and good—and good?”

He nodded.

“It's ripping to have a mother of whom you can be proud,” he said.

“And—your other mother?”

Again the same lighting up of the young face.

“Oh, she's a brick!” he said. “She's always saying that she can't make up for my real mother, but she does—quite!”

The Veroni turned away. She saw herself in the glass and the man behind her and there was a curious twitching about the painted lips.

“Tell me, Dicky,” she said. “What have you come to me about?”

He took a deep breath and straightened himself.

“It's about to-night—and the mother,” he stammered. “I don't believe it, but she says you sing better than she does—and—and everything depends on her getting this engagement. You see, father has been so ill and we have no money left—”

He stopped short.

“Well?”

“I wondered—I thought of it last night in bed—if I asked you—it's awful cheek though, and it isn't quite sporting—”

“Never mind. Go on!”

“if perhaps you would not sing quite so well—if you would give the mother a chance?”

It was out now. He watched her half-averted face, his own crimson with daring and hope.

“It's awful cheek,” he repeated, apologetically, “but you see, I'm awfully fond of them both and I wanted to help—” “I understand,” she said.

She stood playing with the silver things on the table and he waited patiently. Then she turned. A change had come over her face, but he did not see it and was too excited to notice that there were stains on the painted cheeks.

“It's all right, Dicky,” she said. “You're not to worry. I'll do my best. But go home now, there's a good fellow. I've promised you.”

He held out his small hand.

“Thank you—you're a brick, too,” he said.

For a moment she held his hand between her own and then she let it drop.

“It's for your mother's sake,” she said. “I'd like to do something which will keep her in your memory. Don't forget her, Dicky. She—she loved you, you know. And—you might kiss me good-by.”

“Rather!” he said. “It's awfully good of you, you know.”

He touched her painted cheeks, awkwardly, hurriedly, then went out of the room without a word for the man in the armchair. The door closed with a bang behind him and they heard him running down the corridor.

The Veroni went back to her dressing-table and slowly and methodically began to remove the paint from her face. Her companion watched her for a moment in blank silence.

“That was a good joke about the husband, Vi!” he began at last. “What's your game now, eh?”

“Please tell Herr Grimm that he had better send for Nina Angus at once,” she answered. “I am not going to sing to-night.”

“Not going to sing!”

“I am going abroad.”

He took an impulsive step towards her.

“With whom?”

“Alone.”

“Vi, you're clean, stark, staring mad!”

“Yes, I'm quite mad.”

“You don't mean to say you are going to keep your promise to that young fool—”

“He is my son,” she said, “and what I do I do for the sake of his dead mother.”

“My dear girl, you go beyond me!”

“That would not be difficult. Please do as I ask!”

He shrugged his shoulders, hesitated, and left her.

That night Nina Angus sang her way to triumph. It was her great chance, and she rose to it as only those can rise who feel themselves upheld by a great love.

Her rival heard the thunder of applause from her dressing-room where she lay with her face buried in her arms.