I bade good night, a reluctant good night, to Rosa at the entrance to her flat. "Dearest girl," I said, "let us go to England to-morrow. You are almost English, you know; soon you will be the wife of an Englishman, and there is no place like London." "True," she answered. "There is no place like London. We'll go. The Opera Comique will manage without me. And I will accept no more engagements for a very, very long time. Money doesn't matter. You have enough, and I--oh, Carl, I've got stacks and piles of it. It's so easy, if you have a certain sort of throat like mine, to make more money than you can spend." "Yes," I said. "We will have a holiday, after we are married, and that will be in a fortnight's time. We will go to Devonshire, where the heather is. But, my child, you will be wanting to sing again soon. It is your life." "No," she replied, "you are my life, aren't you?" And, after a pause: "But perhaps singing is part of my life, too. Yes, I shall sing." Then I left her for that night, and walked slowly back to my hotel. THE END.