“I imagine it,” the Directeur responded. “But you will not deny that the Minister has always the right to cancel an invitation. Seats ought to be sold subject to the contingency of that right being exercised.” At that moment still another official plunged into the room. “She is not here yet!” he sighed, as if in extremity. “It is unfortunate,” Cecil sympathetically put in. “It is more than unfortunate, dear monsieur,” said the Directeur, gesticulating. “It is unthinkable. The performance _must_ begin at nine-thirty, and it _must_ begin with the garden scene from ‘Faust,’ in which Mademoiselle Malva takes _Marguerite_.” “Why not change the order?” Cecil suggested. “Impossible. There are only two other items. The first act of ‘Lohengrin,’ with Madame Félise, and the ballet ‘Sylvia.’ We cannot commence with the ballet. No one ever heard of such a thing. And do you suppose that Félise will sing before Malva? Not for millions. Not for a throne. The etiquette of sopranos is stricter than that of Courts. Besides, to-night we cannot have a German opera preceding a French one.” “Then the President and their Majesties will have to wait a little, till Malva arrives,” Cecil said. “Their Majesties wait! Impossible!” “Impossible!” echoed the other official, aghast. Two more officials entered. And the atmosphere of alarm, of being scotched, of being up a tree of incredible height, the atmosphere which at that moment permeated the whole of the vast region behind the scenes of the Paris Opéra, seemed to rush with them into the bureau of the Directeur and to concentrate itself there. “Nine-twenty! And she couldn’t dress in less than fifteen minutes.” “You have sent to the Hôtel du Louvre?” the Directeur questioned despairingly. “Yes, Monsieur the Directeur. She left there two hours ago.” Cecil coughed. “I could have told you as much,” he remarked, very distinctly. “What!” cried the Directeur. “You know Mademoiselle Malva?” “She is among my intimate friends,” said Cecil smoothly. “Perhaps you know where she is?” “I have a most accurate idea,” said Cecil. “Where?” “I will tell you when I am seated in my box with my friends,” Cecil answered. “Dear monsieur,” panted the Directeur, “tell us at once! I give you my word of honour that you shall have your box.” Cecil bowed. “Certainly,” he said. “I may remark that I had gathered information which led me to anticipate this difficulty with the Minister of Fine Arts----” “But Malva, Malva--where is she?”