Mr. Pickering says the freshest things, and after I have laughed five
minutes at their freshness it suddenly occurs to me that they are very
wise, and I think them over for a week." "True!" she went on, nodding at
him. "I call them inspired solecisms, and I treasure them up. Remember
that when I next laugh at you!"

Glancing at Pickering, I was prompted to believe that he was in a state
of beatific exaltation which weighed Madame Blumenthal's smiles and
frowns in an equal balance. They were equally hers; they were links
alike in the golden chain. He looked at me with eyes that seemed to say,
"Did you ever hear such wit? Did you ever see such grace?" It seemed to
me that he was but vaguely conscious of the meaning of her words; her
gestures, her voice and glance, made an absorbing harmony. There is
something painful in the spectacle of absolute enthralment, even to an
excellent cause. I gave no response to Pickering's challenge, but made
some remark upon the charm of Adelina Patti's singing. Madame
Blumenthal, as became a "revolutionist," was obliged to confess that she
could see no charm in it; it was meagre, it was trivial, it lacked soul.
"You must know that in music, too," she said, "I think for myself!" And
she began with a great many flourishes of her fan to explain what it was
she thought. Remarkable things, doubtless; but I cannot answer for it,
for in the midst of the explanation the curtain rose again. "You can't
be a great artist without a great passion!" Madame Blumenthal was
affirming. Before I had time to assent Madame Patti's voice rose
wheeling like a skylark, and rained down its silver notes. "Ah, give me
that art," I whispered, "and I will leave you your passion!" And I
departed for my own place in the orchestra. I wondered afterwards
whether the speech had seemed rude, and inferred that it had not on
receiving a friendly nod from the lady, in the lobby, as the theatre was
emptying itself. She was on Pickering's arm, and he was taking her to