They passed through the opening in the brass rail that led to the foyer. This space, the gathering place of the radiant beings of Mariposa’s first night at the opera, was now a dimly-lit and deserted hall, its flagged flooring looking dirty in the raw light. From somewhere, in what seemed a far, dreamy distance, the sound of a piano came, as if muffled by numerous doors. As they crossed the foyer toward the entrance into the auditorium, the door swung open and two men appeared. One was a short and stout Frenchman, with a turned-over collar, upon which a double chin rested. He had a bald forehead and eyes that gleamed sharply from behind a _pince-nez_. At sight of the trio, he gave an exclamation and came forward. “Our young lady?” he said to Mariposa, giving her a quick look of scrutiny that seemed to take her in from foot to forehead. Then he greeted Shackleton with slightly exaggerated foreign effusion. He spoke English perfectly, but with the inevitable accent. This was Lepine, the impresario, and the other man, an Italian who spoke little English, was presented as Signor Tojetti, the conductor. They moved forward talking, and then, pushing the door open, Lepine motioned Mariposa to enter. She did so and for a moment stood amazed, staring into a vast, shadowy space, where, in what seemed a vague, undefined distance, a tiny spot or two of light cut into the darkness. The air was chill and smelt of a stable. From somewhere she heard the sound of voices rising and falling, and then again the notes of a piano, now near and unobscured, carelessly touched and resembling, in the echoing hollow spaciousness of the great building, the thin, tinkling sounds emitted by smitten glass. Lepine brushed past her and led the way down the aisle. As she followed him her eyes became accustomed to the dimness, and she began to make out the arch of the stage with blackness beyond, into which cut the circles of light of a few gas-jets. The lines of seats stretched before her spectral in linen covers. Now and then a figure crossed the stage, and as they drew nearer, she saw on one side of it a man sitting on a high stool reading a paper book by the light of a shaded lamp. The notes of the piano sounded sharper and closer, and by their proximity more than by her sight, she located it in a dark corner of the orchestra. As they approached, the sound of two voices came from this corner, then suddenly a man’s smothered laugh. “Mr. Martinez,” said Lepine, directing his voice toward the darkness whence the laugh had risen, “the lady is here to sing, if you are ready.”