Painted Veils

g heart? Yes-for herself. A cold hard-boiled egg is that same heart. Temperament! Well, I don't know. She may be as hot as a red-hot stove, but she is cerebral all the same. Never will waste herself

he right card for her, not Fursch. Eas

the Maison Felicé and to his sur

to her. She possessed a young, healthy appetite; and she missed the cozy chatter of the American breakfast-table. Several times she peeped through the glass door of her apartment, but saw no one. Various noises told her that the household was cleaning. In despair she took a warm bath and admired the rickety old tub, sheet-iron, not porcelain. She admired her body's lithe length as she faced an oval mirror. I am nice, she thought. Smooth, white, not hairy like so many girls I know. Her breasts were sketchy, but her bosom was so massive that a rich harvest was certain. Her pelvic curve was classic, her legs long and not knock-kneed. The Lord be praised for that much! she said aloud. It was her hair that most pleased her. Black with a suggestion of blue it was like a helmet on her small head. Its tone was f

Her money wouldn't last long. What then! Not for a moment did she consider the possibility of a complaisant rich man. She knew her value in that direction; always, or nearly always, having

frequenter of race-courses, gambling hells, cafés, cocottes and even worse, couldn't tolerate a slang phrase from the mouth of a woman. He saw that Easter was crude, though not coarse. Her education had been the normal unintelligent education of small towns. She hadn't been taught to talk, walk or dress properly. Nevertheless, she wasn't slouchy, and her

oke. A smart girl, that; she will go far-perhaps too far. They went into the Conservatoire Cosmopolitaine. The door was opened by a polite coloured man. He said Madame was busy just then. Wouldn't they wait in the reception room? Stone called the old man "George" and gave him a cigarette. The room was on the first floor facing th

n't say anything about Fursch-Madi. I'd like to get you on the free-list, then, perhaps, you might help out by accompa

nswered, "you are a

f day. Stone took her apart and whispered in her little ear, which her loosely piled iron gray hair did not conceal. But she was all eyes for the girl, who in turn devoured this model Parisienne. And she is an American, what chic! thought Easter. "A voice, you say, Alfred, and such good looks. I should say so. Come up stairs, Miss Brandès. Nice stage name, eh, Alfred! Of course,

ant." Madame Mayerbeer turned to the

need hardly tell you that our teaching staff is the most famous in the world. Such genius. But the combination of beauty and talent-you, Mr. Stone tells me, possess a wonderful voice-All right, George. Tell her I

never winced, Madame was only more amiable. "I'm crazy to hear you sing." There was genuine fi

ent, interesting person. But his eyes were superb, thought Easter, who was fascinated by their size, lustre, and the heavy romantic lashes that fringed them. So this is the celebrated Victor Lapoul, the singer who turned the heads of Parisian women when he warbled so amorously at the Comique, she mused. They say he hasn't much voice left. It's all in his personality. The tenor circled her as a cat does a mouse. He wore a preposterously low collar, his hairy chest was partly visible. Ugh! Easter didn't like hairy men. She shocked her mother when a growing girl by declaring sh

dame was all smiles. A diplomatic girl, this, to first sing a composition by the reigning Director of the institution. Lapoul, his arms melodramatically folded, struck an attitude at the end of the instrument. He was apparently more absorbed in the face of the singer than by her singing. He made no comment when she finished. Stone cynically regarded the tenor. "Cabotin" he whispered

care much for Wagne

. The tenor applauded. A very magnificent, extraordinary, beautiful, lovely, wonderful soprano. Ah! one year in his class. Mademoiselle would be a marvellous artiste. Ravishing. Overwhelming. The Metropolitan Opera House would gladly throw open its doors to such genius. All the while he uttered this hyperbolical praise he persistently fastened his bold staring eyes upon the girl. Stone noted that he made swallowing movements as if he were about to taste a bonne-bouche. His offer left the company cold. His scheme didn't suit the plans of either Madame Mayer beer or Alfred Stone. "Fursch-Madi," said Madame. "She goes to Ash or no one," muttered Stone. Why the girl is amateurish. S