"Good heavens girl. That's the middle of the night. Let us say, after luncheon. I'll be here at 3 o'clock. I can't get in for luncheon as I don't rise till midday. Then--ho! for the Conservatoire Cosmopolitaine, where they teach you to sing in every language--but your own. Madame Mayerbeer is Gallic or nothing." He made a formal bow and took his leave. Easter stood at the pianoforte dreaming. Was it, after all, coming, the realization of her mother's solitary ambition? But once between the sheets Easter didn't dream. The day and its wonderful events had exhausted her. She was awakened in broad daylight by the maid who asked her if she would have coffee or chocolate. II Alfred Stone reflected: She is unusual. Never mind her beauty or her voice; it's her personality that will win out. What curious eyes. Hard as steel when she doesn't like the way things are going. Big heart? Yes--for herself. A cold hard-boiled egg is that same heart. Temperament! Well, I don't know. She may be as hot as a red-hot stove, but she is cerebral all the same. Never will waste herself in the swamp of sensual sentimentality. She will learn to use a man just as a man uses a woman. Un, deux, trois--c'est fini! That's the only way. Like trying on a new pair of gloves. Do they fit? No. Chuck 'em away. I think Frida Ash is the right card for her, not Fursch. Easter is not ready yet for the footlights. He walked into the vestibule of the Maison Felicé and to his surprise found her waiting for him. "What! Punctuality in a future prima-donna," he jested. Easter disliked him this afternoon. She was in an umbrageous humour. She had slept soundly, the day was clear, the air crisp, the snow was not ankle-deep. Why had she turned cold? She didn't know. Stone suddenly bored her. Yet she had passed the morning thinking of him. Why his sudden interest? Would he try to profit by her? Such things she had read about in musical journals. Managers--who didn't advertise--were denounced by unselfish editors. Perhaps he would make a commission by taking her to the Cosmopolitaine. Nasty mean suspicions closed in upon her. She couldn't shake them off. She sang some scales; she read without interest a morning newspaper that she had found in the rusty drawing-room. The French breakfast of chocolate and rolls didn't appeal to her. She possessed a young, healthy appetite; and she missed the cozy chatter of the American breakfast-table. Several times she peeped through the glass door of her apartment, but saw no one. Various noises told her that the household was cleaning. In despair she took a warm bath and admired the rickety old tub, sheet-iron, not porcelain. She admired her body's lithe length as she faced an oval mirror. I am nice, she thought. Smooth, white, not hairy like so many girls I know. Her breasts were sketchy, but her bosom was so massive that a rich harvest was certain. Her pelvic curve was classic, her legs long and not knock-kneed.