“Oh, yes, I have seen her pictures, and read her name many times lately,” Jane followed. “As you say, Mrs. Weatherbee, it will mean everything if we can secure her.” “But I have to go back to that violinist at three, my dear, and Mme. Nalasky will not be able to appear from her boudoir until two thirty. I wonder if I could leave you here, and go myself to the violinist? Then, if Madam appears you might make the preliminary appeal. I hate to leave it to you, but I feel you would have a better chance with her than with the other, and I cannot be in both places at the same time.” “Oh, I shall be glad to try, Mrs. Weatherbee,” assented Jane, rather glad indeed at the prospect of a quiet half hour in the luxurious room, in which strangers, properly introduced, daily awaited the presence of the noted singer. “If Madam appears I shall do my best.” Satisfied it was perfectly safe to leave her charge in the room so well peopled with women servants of the prima donna, one a secretary, one evidently a personal maid, and still another a matronly woman who attended to strangers after they had successfully passed the hall boy’s scrutiny and stereotyped interrogations, Mrs. Weatherbee hurried off for her final word from the elusive violinist. Jane settled down deeply in her cushions. But presently she was aware of a stir in the room. “Madam is ready,” briefly announced the secretary, taking the card from the young woman who had been waiting longest. Jane sat up attentively. The girl with the great fur scarf was ushered into the next room. No one read or shifted about the waiting room now. Everyone was expectant, and evidently a little excited. “Oh, if Mrs. Weatherbee is not here!” breathed Jane. Then she tidied up her belongings, and prepared to be ushered in, if that good fortune came her way next. She must plead for Wellington. And perhaps she would be able to do so more effectively than she had supposed. The girl with the fur scarf and great bundle of music was coming out smiling. Her interview had been satisfactory, Jane guessed, and very likely it had to do with a musical ambition. Jane hoped so. Her own card was in her hand when the secretary approached. That functionary took it with a pleasant nod and disappeared. Jane felt just a little nervous. She had secretly hoped Mrs. Weatherbee would appear in time for the interview. “Miss Allen!” called the attendant, and Jane self-consciously followed into the sanctum. The soft luxury of the room was almost lost upon Jane, so intent was she on her mission, and so fascinated was her gaze by the living picture sitting in the small mahogany chair. This was Mme. Nalasky. She smiled so frankly as Jane approached, the latter’s embarrassment was swept away in her all-embracing welcome. “Oh, my dear little girl,” spoke the noted singer, with a distinctly foreign accent. “What can I do for you?” After a preliminary word of explanation Jane briefly told of the Golden Jubilee Concert.