“Well, in some moods I would agree with him,” Nancy said. “Anyway, whatever the old cynic may say, he has a profound belief in your future. When he was ushering me out of his apartment ...” “Oh, he ushered you out?” Nancy laughed. “He always pushes me out.” “He would! But listen, he took my arm and said, with a twinkle in his bright black eyes, ‘So you heard her sing and knew she had a voice?’ I bowed. ‘_Siete un conoscente, caro. Felicitazioni._’” The opera played at San Carlo that night was _La Traviata_. Nancy, not oppressed by the sound and sight of a contralto singing and acting far better than she could ever hope to sing and act, thoroughly enjoyed it. The Violetta was a delicate and lovely creature so that, even if her _coloratura_ did lack something of the finest quality and ease, her death was almost intolerably moving. Alfredo was played by an elderly tenor into whose voice the _vibrato_ of age had already insinuated itself. He was, however, such a master of all the graces that neither his appearance nor the fading of his voice seemed to matter a great deal. In compensation for an elderly tenor, the heavy father was played by a very young barytone with a voice of glorious roundness and sonority. Kenrick was much excited by this performance and prophesied for this new singer a success all over Europe as round and sonorous as his voice. He declared that he had never heard Germont’s great aria “Di Provenza” given so well. After the performance they went to supper at one of the popular restaurants near the opera house, where Kenrick discoursed upon the æsthetic value of _La Traviata_. “It’s the fashion to decry it as a piece of tawdry and melodramatic sensationalism, but to my mind it fulfills perfectly Aristotle’s catharsis.” “That sounds reassuring,” Nancy laughed. “But I’m afraid I don’t in the least understand what it means.”