"Aha!" cried Stone. "Georg Brandes the Danish writer is a Jew, and there is Marthe Brandès of Paris, you know, the beautiful actress--" "I've never been to Paris," interrupted Easter. "Is she a great actress this Marthe Brandès?" "Not so great as alluring. Yes, she is great if compared with any English or American actress." His dark eyes glowed. He almost became animated. Easter listened with curiosity. A man who spoke with such surety was somebody. Who was this Mr. Stone? She tried him with a touch of flattery. "You must have seen a lot of actresses to pass such a judgment." He became quite languid. "Miss Brandès, I am a critic of the theatre and music." She eagerly responded: "A critic of music. How nice." His depression increased. "What's nice about it?" he asked in a sullen tone. "Oh, to hear all the great singers and players." "You mean, to be forced to hear a lot of mediocrities. Even the great ones, Lilli Lehmann, Brandt, the De Reszkes, get on my nerves. You can have too much of a good thing my dear young lady." She became still more absorbed. "Now, tell me. What are you after?" he demanded in kindly fashion. "I mean to be a great dramatic soprano," she confidently asserted. "Aha!" he vouchsafed. "Rather a modest programme." "I mean to accomplish it," she retorted. He was visibly impressed. "Of course, a great voice you must have to begin with; and then there are such items as vocal technique and dramatic temperament, and beauty--you are well supplied in that--" he gallantly bowed--"Thank you," said the girl not in the least abashed; she knew she was good-looking--"and how many other qualifications?" he interposed. "I speak French. My mother was a Frenchwoman. I speak Italian, without an accent, my teacher said--" "Without an Italian accent, he meant?"--"No, with a Tuscan accent," the girl proudly replied; "and I'm a trained musician, a solo pianist, and accompanist and read and transpose at sight. I--" He wearily waved her words away. "Yes, yes. I know all about you girls who play, sing, transpose and compose. There's Yankee versatility, if you please. Universal genius. And you couldn't compose a rôle any more than you could cook your husband's dinner--if you were unlucky enough to have one." Easter smiled and it was like sunrise. Something inexpressibly youthful came into the world. "At any rate I have a good dinner if I haven't the husband," she challenged. He assented. "The cuisine here is famous. Not at Martin's, or Delmonico's, or down on 14th Street at Moretti's is there better flavoured food." They had not reached coffee. The sweets were insignificant. Easter positively became buoyant. She must have had Celtic in her, she went from the cellar to the clouds and the clouds to the cellar with such facility. Her Avernus once achieved, the rebound was sure to follow. Momentarily she forgot her poverty, loneliness, strangeness, and Mr. Stone was like a friend in need. She played confidential.