“Strikingly handsome. She is very young; her mother says nigh sixteen, but I should guess her at under fifteen certainly. I thought at once of writing to _you_, Stocmar, when I saw her. I know how eagerly _you_ snatch up such a chance as this; but as you were on your way out, I deferred to mention her till you came.” “And what counsel did you give her, Trover?” “I said, 'By all means devote her to the Opera. It is to women, in our age, what the career of politics is to men, the only royal road to high ambition.'” “That is what I tell all my young prime donne,” said Stocmar. “I never fail to remind them that any débutante may live to be a duchess.” “And they believe you?” asked Paten. “To be sure they do. Why, man, there is an atmosphere of credulity about a theatre that makes one credit anything, except what is palpably true. Every manager fancies he is making a fortune; every tenor imagines he is to marry a princess; and every fiddler in the orchestra firmly believes in the time when a breathless audience will be listening to _his_ 'solo.'” “I wish, with all my heart, I was on the stage, then,” exclaimed Paten. “I should certainly like to imbibe some of this sanguine spirit.” “You are too old a dram-drinker, Ludlow, to be intoxicated with such light tipple,” said Stocmar. “You have tasted of the real 'tap.'” “That have I,” said he, with a sigh that told how intensely he felt the words; and then, as if to overcome the sad impression, he asked, “And the girl, is she to take to the stage?” “I believe Stocmar will have to decide the point; at least, I told her mother that he was on his way to Italy, and that his opinion on such a matter might be deemed final. Our friend here,” continued Trover, as he pointed laughingly to Stocmar,--“our friend here buys up these budding celebrities just as Anderson would a yearling colt, and, like him too, would reckon himself well paid if one succeed in twenty.” “Ay, one in fifty, Trover,” broke in Stocmar. “It is quite true. Many a stone does not pay for the cutting; but as we always get the lot cheap, we can afford to stand the risk.” “She's a strange sort of woman, this Mrs. Morris,” said Trover, after a pause, “for she seems hesitating between the Conservatoire and a convent.” “Is the girl a Catholic?” “No; but her mother appears to consider that as a minor circumstance; in fact, she strikes me as one of those people who, when they determine to go to a place, are certain to cut out a road for themselves.” “That she is!” exclaimed Paten. “Oh, then, you are acquainted with her?” cried Trover. “No, no,” said he, hurriedly. “I was merely judging from your description of her. Such a woman as you have pictured I can imagine, just as if I had known her all my life.” “I should like to see both mother and daughter,” broke in Stocmar. “I fancy she will have no objection; at least, she said to me, 'You will not fail to inform me of your friend Mr. Stocmar's arrival here;' and I promised as much.”