One afternoon that spring, Will returned to town from a visit to the Provinces in connection with his new opera, _The Lady of Llandudno_, then about to be performed in several country theatres by Mr D’Arcy Clift’s operatic company. He drove almost straight from the station to Rue’s. Florian was there in great form; and Mr Joaquin Holmes, the Colorado Seer, had dropped in for afternoon tea at his fair disciple’s. In spite of Will’s ridicule, Rue continued to believe in Mr Holmes’ thought-reading and other manifestions. For the Seer had added by this time a touch of spiritualism to the general attractions of his flagging entertainments at the Assyrian Hall; and it is a mysterious dispensation of Providence that wealthy Americans, especially widows, fall a natural prey to all forms of transcendentalism or spiritualistic quackery. It seems to be one of the strange devices which Providence adopts for putting excessive or monopolised wealth into circulation. “Mr Holmes wants me to go to the Harmony to-night,” Rue said, with a smile—“you know what it is—the new Harmony Theatre. He says there’s a piece coming out there this evening I ought to see—a pretty new piece by an American composer. You’re going to be crushed, Will. They’ve got a fresh tenor there, a very good man, whom Mr Holmes thinks a deal of. I’ve half a mind to go; will you join our party?” “You ought to hear it,” the Seer remarked, with his oracular air, turning to Will, and looking critical. “This new tenor’s a person you should keep your eye upon; I heard him rehearse, and I said to myself at once, ‘That fellow’s the very man Mr Deverill will want to write a first part for; if he doesn’t, I’ll retire at once from the prophetic business.’ He has a magnificent voice; you should get Blades to secure him next season for the Duke of Edinburgh’s. He’s worth fifty pounds a night, if he’s worth a penny.” “Very good trade, a tenor’s,” Florian mused philosophically. “I often regret I wasn’t brought up to it.” “What’s his name?” Will asked with languid interest, for he had no great faith in the Seer’s musical ear and critical acumen. “His name? Heaven knows,” the Seer answered, with a short laugh; “but he _calls_ himself Papadopoli—Signor Romeo Papadopoli.”