importance; outstanding from all of them, of course, was the great star
of the evening, the one and only Zélie de Longarde, acknowledged Queen of
Song in Milan and Moscow, Paris and London, New York and Melbourne.

"Comes on fifth, I see," observed Allerdyke, glancing over his
program unconcernedly. "Well, I suppose we've got to stick out the
other four. I'm not great on music, Fullaway--don't know one tune
from another. However, I reckon I can stand a bit of noise until my
lady shows herself."

He listened with good-natured interest, which was not far removed from
indifference, to the contralto, the 'cellist, the violinist, only waking
up to something like enthusiasm when the infant prodigy, a quaint,
painfully shy little creature, who bobbed a side curtsey at the audience,
and looked much too small to tackle the grand piano, appeared and
proceeded to execute wonderful things with her small fingers.

"That's a bit of all right!" murmured Allerdyke, when the child had
finished her first contribution. "That's a clever little party! But she's
too big in the eye, and too small in the bone--wants plenty of new milk,
and new-laid eggs, and fresh air, and not so much piano-thumping, does
that. Clever--clever--but unnatural, Fullaway!--they mustn't let her do
too much at that. Well, now I suppose we shall see the shoe-buckle lady."

The packed audience evidently supposed the same thing. Over it--the
infant prodigy having received her meed of applause and bobbed herself
awkwardly out of sight--had come that atmosphere of expectancy which
invariably heralds the appearance of the great figure on any similar
occasion. It needed no special intuition on Allerdyke's part to know that
all these people were itching to show their fondness for Zélie de