"Lord, what does that matter? I only said she looked young, and so she did. And besides, I dare say the Major exaggerates her age. When a woman becomes a celebrity, or comes before the public in any way, her age is sure to be exaggerated. Many people who only know me through my works suppose me to be eighty, I dare say. They never imagine a woman so young as I was at the time composing a serious work like 'Esther.'" "Is she handsome, this Signora Moretti?" asked Mrs. Bransby, who was always interested in, and attracted by, beauty. "Very handsome--in that Italian style. Great black eyes, and black eyebrows, and a fine profile. Too thin, though. But, oh yes; extremely handsome. And a very clever singer." "And a very worthless hussey," added Miss Patty severely. "What a pity!" exclaimed Mrs. Hadlow. "It does seem so sad when one finds great gifts, like talent and beauty, without goodness!" "Well, I don't know that she was so very bad either," replied Miss Piper. "Goodness, Polly! How can you talk so!" cried her sister. "Why, she was living openly with that Englishman!" "Some people said she was married to him, you know, Patty." "Stuff and nonsense!" returned Miss Patty, who, whilst undoubtedly accepting her sister's views about music, tenaciously reserved the right of private judgment as to the character of its professors, and was, moreover, chronically incredulous of the virtue of foreigners in general. "No sensible person could believe that. And as to her 'not being so very bad'--what do you make of that nice story of the gambling, and the police, and all the rest of it?" "The police!" echoed Mrs. Hadlow, in a low shocked voice. "What was that?" asked Mrs. Bransby. "Now, just let me tell it, Patty," said the elder sister. "If I am wrong you can correct me afterwards. But I believe I know more about it than you do. Well, there was an Italian Opera Company singing in a minor theatre of Brussels when we were there, and doing very well; for the _prima donna_, Bianca Moretti, was a great favourite. They had previously been making a tour through Belgium. One night we were in the theatre with some friends, expecting to hear her for the second time in the 'Barbiere,' when, some time after the curtain ought to have risen, a man came on to the stage, and announced that the Signora Moretti had been suddenly taken ill, and there would be no performance. But the next day we learned that the story of the Moretti's illness was only an excuse--or, at least, that if she was ill, it was only from the nervous shock of having her house searched by the police." "I think that was quite enough to make her ill! But why did they search her house?" said Mrs. Bransby.