As for Andreas Hausberger, he stalked on before, elated, hardly thinking of Will—as indeed he had no cause to do. The rich woman of the world and the influential critic monopolised his attention. Tyrolese though he was, he was by no means jealous; greed of gain had swallowed up in him all the available passions of that phlegmatic nature. Linnet was his chattel now; he had married her and trained her; her earnings were his own, doubly mortgaged to him for life, and no poet on earth, be he ever so seductive, could charm them away from him. He opened the box door with stately dignity. At St Valentin or in London, he was a person of importance. Linnet entered, quivering. She still wore her primrose brocade, as all through the last act, and she looked in it, even yet, a very great lady. Not Rue herself looked so great or so grand—charming, smiling Rue—as she rose to greet her. They stood and faced each other. One second Rue paused; then a womanly instinct all at once overcame her. Leaning forward with the impulse, she kissed the beautiful, stately creature on both cheeks with effusion, in unfeigned enthusiasm. “Why, Linnet,” she said, simply, as if she had always known her; “we’re so glad to see you—to be the very first to congratulate you on your success this evening!” A flood of genuine passion rushed hot into Linnet’s face. Her warm southern nature responded at once to the pressure of Rue’s hand. She seized her new friend by either arm, and returned her double kiss in a transport of gratitude. “Dear lady,” she said, with fervour, in her still imperfect English, “how sweet that you receive me so! How kind and good you English are to me!” Andreas Hausberger’s white shirt-front swelled with expansive joy. This all meant money. They were really making wonderful strides in England. Will held his hand out timidly. “Have you forgotten me, Frau Hausberger?” he asked her in German. Linnet’s face flushed a still deeper crimson than before, as she answered frankly, “Forgotten you, Herr Will. _Ach, lieber Gott_, no! How kind of you . . . to come and hear my first performance!” “Nor me either, Linnet, I hope,” Florian interposed more familiarly, in his native tongue; for he had caught at the meaning of that brief Teutonic interlude. “I shall always feel proud, Herr Andreas, to think it was I who first discovered this charming song-bird’s voice among its native mountains.”