"I am a lover of beauty, Miss Brandès, in all its forms. You must be with us. Our Conservatoire is truly international. We develop native talent irrespective of race or religion. Talent is what we are after, and I need hardly tell you that our teaching staff is the most famous in the world. Such genius. But the combination of beauty and talent--you, Mr. Stone tells me, possess a wonderful voice--All right, George. Tell her I'll be upstairs soon. Attendez...." She rushed out to the stairway. "Adèle, I'll be up in a minute. We have just discovered a treasure. A marvellous voice, so Mr. Stone declares...." A grumbling voice called down: "Another of his discoveries--like the last I suppose." There was ironic edge to her words. Stone never winced, Madame was only more amiable. "I'm crazy to hear you sing." There was genuine fire in her lovely eyes. Easter was quite willing. But M. Lapoul wouldn't be ready for a half-hour. "George, tell M. Lapoul to dismiss his class for the day," cried Madame impetuously. "Say I wish to consult him about our new scheme for a Théâtre d'application here in the Conservatoire." Ten minutes later light footsteps were heard. A fantastic Frenchman rushed in, kissed Madame's hand, bowed, till his spine cracked, before Easter and stared her out of countenance. He was the typical Gallic tenor and jeune-premier. Hair worn bang-fashion like a silly girl, a sparse, peaked beard, moustaches upturned--the conquering rooster was evoked by every movement of his graceful, insolent, interesting person. But his eyes were superb, thought Easter, who was fascinated by their size, lustre, and the heavy romantic lashes that fringed them. So this is the celebrated Victor Lapoul, the singer who turned the heads of Parisian women when he warbled so amorously at the Comique, she mused. They say he hasn't much voice left. It's all in his personality. The tenor circled her as a cat does a mouse. He wore a preposterously low collar, his hairy chest was partly visible. Ugh! Easter didn't like hairy men. She shocked her mother when a growing girl by declaring she would never marry, because she wouldn't be able to endure the sight of her husband's hairy legs when he got out of bed in the morning. Her mother shrugged despairing shoulders. I've hatched out a queer bird, this Yankee child of mine, said the Frenchwoman. But she re-doubled her watch on the girl's goings and comings. No such feeble excuse as spending the night with a school-girl friend imposed upon this experienced woman. Strange to relate that Easter was as strictly chaperoned as if living on the continent. She, American born, was brought up like a French provincial miss.