Sir Cyril had small eyes, and small features generally, including
rather a narrow forehead. His nostrils, however, were well curved, and
his thin, straight lips and square chin showed the stiffest
determination. He looked fatigued, weary, and harassed; yet it did not
appear that he complained of his lot; rather accepted it with sardonic
humor. The cares of an opera season and of three other simultaneous
managements weighed on him ponderously, but he supported the burden
with stoicism.
"What is the matter with Alresca to-night?" Sullivan asked. "Suffering
the pangs of jealousy, I suppose."
"Alresca," Sir Cyril replied, "is the greatest tenor living, and
to-night he sings like a variety comedian. But it is not jealousy.
There is one thing about Alresca that makes me sometimes think he is
not an artist at all--he is incapable of being jealous. I have known
hundreds of singers, and he is the one solitary bird among them of
that plumage. No, it is not jealousy."
"Then what is it?"
"I wish I knew. He asked me to go and dine with him this afternoon.
You know he dines at four o'clock. Of course, I went. What do you
think he wanted me to do? He actually suggested that I should change
the bill to-night! That showed me that something really was the
matter, because he's the most modest and courteous man I have ever
known, and he has a horror of disappointing the public. I asked him if
he was hoarse. No. I asked him if he felt ill. No. But he was
extremely depressed.
"'I'm quite well,' he said, 'and yet--' Then he stopped. 'And yet
what?' It seemed as if I couldn't drag it out of him. Then all of a
sudden he told me. 'My dear Smart,' he said, 'there is a misfortune
coming to me. I feel it.' That's just what he said--'There's a
misfortune coming to me. I feel it.' He's superstitious. They all are.
Naturally, I set to work to soothe him. I did what I could. I talked
about his liver in the usual way. But it had less than the usual
effect. However, I persuaded him not to force me to change the bill."
Mrs. Sullivan struck into the conversation.
"He isn't in love with Rosa, is he?" she demanded brusquely.
"In love with Rosa? Of course he isn't, my pet!" said Sullivan.
The wife glared at her husband as if angry, and Sullivan made a comic
gesture of despair with his hands.
"Is he?" Mrs. Sullivan persisted, waiting for Smart's reply.
"I never thought of that," said Sir Cyril simply. "No; I should say
not, decidedly not.... He may be, after all. I don't know. But if
he were, that oughtn't to depress him. Even Rosa ought to be flattered
by the admiration of a man like Alresca. Besides, so far as I know,
they've seen very little of each other. They're too expensive to sing
together often. There's only myself and Conried of New York who would
dream of putting them in the same bill. I should say they hadn't sung
together more than two or three times since the death of Lord
Clarenceux; so, even if he has been making love to her, she's scarcely
had time to refuse him--eh?"