NANCY’S CONTRALTO The acquaintance began in Bristol by Nancy’s finding a letter waiting for her at the stage-door on the second evening. Royal Severn Hotel, Bristol, Oct. 11. Tuesday aft. Dear Miss O’Finn, Business having brought me to Bristol, I found myself at the Princess’s Theatre last night, and I want to tell you how very much I enjoyed your performance of the Baroness—a difficult and ungrateful part in an absurd production. But apart from your acting I was tremendously struck by your voice. If it were well trained, I don’t hesitate to say that you might go very far indeed in grand opera. Good contraltos are so rare, and good contraltos who can act are simply not to be found except in the unusual atmospheric conditions set up by a blue moon. To show my genuine enthusiasm, although my business in Bristol is at an end, I am staying on another night in order to give myself the pleasure of hearing you sing a second time. And will you set the seal upon the pleasure by joining me at supper in my hotel after the performance? I will call for your answer before going in front. Don’t concern yourself about “clothes.” Such a supper as I can offer you will not be worthy of a grand toilette. Yours very truly, John Kenrick. Nancy was not used to getting letters of appreciation from the front of the house. Adventuresses of the type that she had been playing did not attract the susceptible pen. She really hardly knew how to reply. At the same time it was pleasant to be told nice things about one’s voice and one’s acting. She reread the letter. Rather an affected way of writing, she decided, when she came to the remark about the blue moon. Still, the affectation of the host was not sufficient reason to decline supper with him. Grand opera? The man was mad. Grand opera? Did he know anything about grand opera? It might be interesting to go out to supper. After all, if he turned out to be an idle bore she was not bound to see any more of him. Business might detain him in Bristol; but she never would, if he were tiresome. Nancy borrowed a piece of notepaper from the stage-door keeper and wrote a brief acceptance of the stranger’s invitation. “I’ve got off with an impresario,” she told the lady who shared her dressing-room. “With a what, dear?” “Or a Lothario. I’m not quite sure yet,” Nancy laughed. “Have I put too much black on my left eyelid?” the other asked intensely. “It looks a bit smudgy, doesn’t it?” “You’re not much interested in my young man,” said Nancy in mock reproach. “I’m sorry, dear. I was so fussed by this gard-awful liquid-black I bought last week at Cardiff.” “Perhaps it was coal,” Nancy suggested.