“Art, art,” the transfigured Robbler responded, offhand, with inimitable swagger. “You must surely zen know my stage name, zough you don’t seem to have heard me.” He pulled out a printed card, and handed it to Will with a flourish. “I am ze Signor Francesco,” he continued, “all ze world is talking about.” And he threw back his chin and cocked his head on one side, looking, even as he spoke, more pretentious than ever. “Oh, indeed!” Will answered with a bewildered little laugh. But it was the non-committing “Oh, indeed!” of mere polite acquiescence. Franz Lindner caught the tinge of implied non-recognition in the Englishman’s voice, and hastened to add, as if parenthetically, “I perform at ze Pavilion.” “What, the London Pavilion at the top of the Hay market?” Will exclaimed, beginning to realise. Franz Lindner looked hurt. “I’ve seen _your_ name often enough,” he said, asserting himself still more vigorously as Will seemed to know less of him; “and I sought, as you were a pillar of ze profession yourself, you would certainly have seen _mine_, if it were only on ze posters. I’m advertised largely. All London rings wis me. Ze County Council has even taken notice of me. I’m a public character! And I have had ze intention more zan once of looking you up, as also Mr Florian. But zere, here in London our time is so occupied! You and I, who are public men, wis professional engagements—we are ever overtaxed; we know not how to find ze leisure or ze space for ze claims of friendship.” “Have you been long in London?” Will asked, turning down with him towards Piccadilly. “More zan two years now,” the Robbler answered briskly, lounging on at his own pace, with a cane in his gloved hand, and staring hard, as he passed, at every pretty girl he saw on foot or in the carriages. “After I leave you at Meran, I worked my way slowly—singing, singing, ever singing—by degrees to Paris. But Paris didn’t suit me; zere is too much _blague_ zere; zey go in for buffoons; zey laugh at a man of modest merit. I hate _blague_ myself. So zen I came on pretty soon to London. At first I had to sing in common low music halls—sous side and zat; but talent, talent is sure to make its way in ze end. I rose very quick, and now—I am at ze head of my branch of ze profession.” “You sing, of course?” Will interposed, restraining a smile at the Robbler’s delicious self-satisfaction. The man himself was the very same as ever, to be sure; but ’twas strange what a difference mere externals had made in him! “Yes; I sing, and sometimes, too, I play ze zither. But mostly, I sing. It surprises me, indeed, you should not have heard of my singing.” “And what’s the particular branch of which you’re the acknowledged head?” Will asked, still amused at the Tyroler’s complacency.