Then the house buzzed, and ranks were leveled; little people spoke to big
people, and big to little, in mutual congratulation; for at such rare
moments (except in Anglo-Saxony) instinct seems to tell men that true art
is a sunshine of the soul, and blesses the rich and the poor alike.

One person was affected in another way. Harrington Vizard sat rapt in
attention, and never took his eyes off her, yet said not a word.

Several Russian and Prussian grandees sought an introduction to the new
singer. But she pleaded fatigue.

The manager entreated her to sup with him, and meet the Grand Duke of
Hesse. She said she had a prior engagement.

She went quietly home, and supped with her faithful Ashmead, and very
heartily too; for nature was exhausted, and agitation had quite spoiled
her dinner.

Joseph Ashmead, in the pride of his heart, proposed a bottle of
champagne. The Queen of Song, with triumph flushed, looked rather blue at
that. "My friend," said she, in a meek, deprecating way, "we are
working-people: is not Bordeaux good enough for _us?"_

"Yes; but it is not good enough for the occasion," said Joseph, a little
testily. "Well, never mind;" and he muttered to himself, "that is the
worst of _good_ women: they are so terribly stingy."

The Queen of Song, with triumph flushed, did not catch these words, but
only a little growling. However, as supper proceeded, she got uneasy. So
she rang the bell, and ordered a _pint:_ of this she drank one spoonful.