“By the way, Cecil,” remarked Mr. Boniface, when presently a pause came in the general talk, “I saw one of your heroes this morning. Do you go in for hero-worship in Norway, Herr Falck? My daughter here is a pupil after Carlyle’s own heart.” “We at any rate read Carlyle,” said Frithiof. “But who can it have been?” exclaimed Cecil. “Not Signor Donati?” “The very same,” said Mr. Boniface. “But I thought he was singing at Paris?” “So he is; he only ran over for a day or two on business, and he happened to look in this morning with Sardoni, who came to arrange about a song of his which we are going to publish.” “Sardoni seems to me the last sort of man one would expect to write songs,” said Roy. “But in spite of it he has written a very taking one,” said Mr. Boniface, “and I am much mistaken if it does not make a great hit. If so his fortune is made, for you see he can write tenor songs for himself and contralto songs for his wife, and they’ll get double royalties that way.” “But Signor Donati, father, what did he say? What is he like?” “Well, he is so unassuming and quiet that you would never think it possible he’s the man every one is raving about. And, except for that, he’s really very much like other people, talked business very sensibly, and seemed as much interested about this song of Sardoni’s as if there had never been anything out of the way in his own life at all. I took to him very much.” “Can’t you get him to sing next summer?” “I tried, but it is out of the question. He has signed an agreement only to sing for Carrington. But he has promised me to sing at one of our concerts the year after next.” “Fancy having to make one’s arrangements so long beforehand!” exclaimed Cecil. “You must certainly hear him, Herr Falck, when you have a chance; they say he is the finest baritone in Europe.” “He made us all laugh this morning,” said Mr. Boniface. “I forget now what started it, something in the words of the song, I fancy, but he began to tell us how yesterday he had been down at some country place with a friend of his, and as they were walking through the grounds they met a most comical old fellow in a tall hat. “‘Halloo!’ exclaimed his friend, ‘here’s old Sykes the mole-catcher, and I do declare he’s got another beaver! Where on earth does he get them?’ “‘In England,’ said Donati to his friend, ‘it would hardly do to inquire after his hatter, I suppose.’ “At which the other laughed of course, and they agreed together that just for a joke they would find out. So they began to talk to the old man, and presently the friend remarked: “‘I say, Sykes, my good fellow, I wish you’d tell me how you manage to get such a succession of hats. Why, you are rigged out quite fresh since I saw you on Monday.’ “The old mole-catcher gave a knowing wink, and after a little humming and hawing he said: “‘Well, sir, yer see I changed clothes yesterday with a gentleman in the middle of a field.’