Randall Clayton's ears drank in that soft, wooing accent, and all the ardor of his eyes betrayed the instant recognition which lay behind the diva's merry words. When he had murmured his thanks, the presence of Lilienthal seemed to be a bar to any rapprochement. Clayton was fain to accept Fraeulein Gluyas' courtesy in allowing him a choice as to the handling of the picture or its replica. "If Mademoiselle will allow me," said Clayton, "I will give Mr. Lilienthal my cheque for the coming proof, and retain in my possession the one framed in our American manner." This was soon settled, and then, with a glance at his watch, the dealer, bowing low, hurried away. "We artists have to be unconventional," frankly said the Magyar beauty. "I await Madame Raffoni here for a little tour of the wonderful New York shops." It was a natural passage from the picture to the memories of the Danube, and then, under the kindling glances of the diva, Randall Clayton talked, with spirit, of his happy summer ramblings through Austria and Hungary. Irma Gluyas' magnetic eyes burned into his soul as she followed the young stranger in his itinerary. It was only when the maitre d'hotel entered, announcing Madame Raffoni as in waiting in her carriage, that Randall Clayton's castle in Spain came crashing down around him. The Magyar witch dropped her eyes when Clayton took her hands in adieu. "You have made me forget time, and my workaday world," he said. "I have now something to live for--to hear you sing! It seems so hard to meet only to part. I may never see your coming picture; you may never see mine again. But I cannot lose you from my life. It seemed, Fraeulein Irma," he said, earnestly, "when I first met the glance of your dreaming eyes, that I had known you in some other world." "I receive no one; I am a recluse," murmured Irma, with eyes smiling through down dropped lashes; "but, if you care, you may come, a week from to-day, and breakfast with me here! Dear old Raffoni will play propriety. As for the singing, I am pledged to be mute, parole d'honneur. But you must be in my first audience. I must keep an artist's faith with my manager." "I shall have the loge d'honneur at your debut," enthusiastically cried Clayton, as he lingered over her frankly extended hand after murmuring his acceptance. The woman who sat, with her head bowed upon her hands, listened to his receding footsteps. "Il Regalantuomo," she murmured. "It is a pity, too! What does Fritz want of him?" Then gliding serpent-like from the darkened corridor, she joined the waiting woman in the carriage below, a woman whose form was but dimly defined beyond the half-lowered silken curtain of the carriage as Randall Clayton sped along to his money mill.