“Ah,” said Sardoni, with a smile, “he is such a tremendous fellow for home, he never comes a moment too soon, and at the theater often runs it even closer than this. He is the quickest dresser I ever knew, though, and is never behind time.” Frithiof made his way to the cloak room, and, as he walked through the narrow room leading to it, he could distinctly hear the words of some one within. The voice seemed familiar to him. “Badly received? Well, you only failed because of nervousness. In your second song you will be more used to things, and you will see, it will go much better.” “But _you_ surely can never have had the same difficulty to struggle with?” said the young tenor, who, with a very downcast face, stood talking to the newly arrived baritone. “Never!” exclaimed the other, with a laugh which rang through the room, “Ask Sardoni! He’ll tell you of my first appearance.” Then, as Frithiof gave his message, the speaker turned round and revealed to the Norwegian that face which had fascinated him so strangely just before his illness—a face not only beautiful in outline and coloring, but full of an undefined charm, which made all theories as to the conceit and objectionableness of successful men fall to the ground. “Thank you,” he said, bowing in reply; “I will come down at once.” Then, turning again to the _débutant_ with a smile, “You see, through failing to get that _encore_ that you ought to have deserved, you have nearly made me behind time. Never mind, you will get a very hearty one in the second part to make up. Come down with me, wont you. It is far better fun in that family pew below than up here. Clinton Cleve is here, isn’t he? Have you been introduced to him?” The young man replied in the negative; Frithiof perceived that the idea had cheered him up wonderfully, and knew that a word from the veteran tenor might be of great use to a beginner.