The Ghost | Page 6

doctor! You don't know how young you look. Why, I am
old enough to be your mother!"
"Oh, no, you aren't," I said. At any rate, I knew enough to say that.
And she smiled.
"Personally," she went on, "I hate music--loathe it. But it's Sullivan's
trade, and, of course, one must come here."
She waved a jewelled arm towards the splendid animation of the
auditorium.
"But surely, Emmeline," I cried protestingly, "you didn't 'loathe' that
first act. I never heard anything like it. Rosa was simply--well, I can't
describe it."
She gazed at me, and a cloud of melancholy seemed to come into her
eyes. And after a pause she said, in the strangest tone, very quietly:
"You're in love with her already."

And her eyes continued to hold mine.
"Who could help it?" I laughed.
She leaned towards me, and her left hand hung over the edge of the
box.
"Women like Rosetta Rosa ought to be killed!" she said, with
astonishing ferocity. Her rich, heavy contralto vibrated through me. She
was excited again, that was evident. The nervous mood had overtaken
her. The long pendent lobes of her ears crimsoned, and her opulent
bosom heaved. I was startled. I was rather more than startled--I was
frightened. I said to myself, "What a peculiar creature!"
"Why?" I questioned faintly.
"Because they are too young, too lovely, too dangerous," she responded
with fierce emphasis. "And as for Rosa in particular--as for Rosa in
particular--if you knew what I knew, what I've seen----"
"What have you seen?" I was bewildered. I began to wish that Sullivan
had not abandoned me to her.
"Perhaps I'm wrong," she laughed.
She laughed, and sat up straight again, and resumed her excellent
imitation of the woman of fashion, while I tried to behave as though I
had found nothing singular in her behavior.
"You know about our reception?" she asked vivaciously in another
moment, playing with her fan.
"I'm afraid I don't."
"Where have you been, Carl?"
"I've been in Edinburgh," I said, "for my final."
"Oh!" she said. "Well, it's been paragraphed in all the papers. Sullivan

is giving a reception in the Gold Rooms of the Grand Babylon Hotel.
Of course, it will be largely theatrical,--Sullivan has to mix a good deal
with that class, you know; it's his business,--but there will be a lot of
good people there. You'll come, won't you? It's to celebrate the five
hundredth performance of 'My Queen.' Rosetta Rosa is coming."
"I shall be charmed. But I should have thought you wouldn't ask Rosa
after what you've just said."
"Not ask Rosa! My dear Carl, she simply won't go anywhere. I know
for a fact she declined Lady Casterby's invitation to meet a Serene
Highness. Sir Cyril got her for me. She'll be the star of the show."
The theatre darkened once more. There were the usual preliminaries,
and the orchestra burst into the prelude of the second act.
"Have you ever done any crystal-gazing?" Emmeline whispered.
And some one on the floor of the house hissed for silence.
I shook my head.
"You must try." Her voice indicated that she was becoming excited
again. "At my reception there will be a spiritualism room. I'm a
believer, you know."
I nodded politely, leaning over the front of the box to watch the
conductor.
Then she set herself to endure the music.
Immediately the second act was over, Sullivan returned, bringing with
him a short, slight, bald-headed man of about fifty. The two were just
finishing a conversation on some stage matter.
"Smart, let me introduce to you my cousin, Carl Foster. Carl, this is Sir
Cyril Smart."
My first feeling was one of surprise that a man so celebrated should be

so insignificant to the sight. Yet as he looked at me I could somehow
feel that here was an intelligence somewhat out of the common. At first
he said little, and that little was said chiefly to my cousin's wife, but
there was a quietude and firmness in his speech which had their own
effect.
Sir Cyril had small eyes, and small features generally, including rather
a narrow forehead. His nostrils, however, were well curved, and his
thin, straight lips and square chin showed the stiffest determination. He
looked fatigued, weary, and harassed; yet it did not appear that he
complained of his lot; rather accepted it with sardonic humor. The cares
of an opera season and of three other simultaneous managements
weighed on him ponderously, but he supported the burden with
stoicism.
"What is the matter with Alresca to-night?" Sullivan asked. "Suffering
the pangs of jealousy, I suppose."
"Alresca," Sir Cyril replied, "is the greatest tenor living, and to-night he
sings like a variety comedian. But it is not jealousy. There is one thing
about Alresca that