"Lord Clarenceux had met her then," said Sir Cyril, speaking of Rosetta Rosa, the opera's soprano with the golden throat. I was drawn to the woman, and listneed eagerly. "She merely said she would think it over. She wouldn't sign a contract. After a week's negotiation, I was compelled to own myself beaten. Nothing happened for a time. She sang in Paris and America, and took her proper place as the first soprano in the world."

Later, I spoke to her myself.

"He is dead now," she told me. "You have heard -- everyone knows -- that I was once engaged to Lord Clarenceux. He was a friend. He loved me -- he died --"

"Lord Clarenceux must have been a great man," I said.

"That is exactly what he was. I wish I could describe him to you, but I cannot. He was immensely rich . . . he fell in love with me, and offered me his hand. I declined -- I was afraid of him. He said he would shoot himself. And he would have done it; so I accepted. I should have ended by loving him. Lord Clarenceux died. And I am alone. I was terribly lonely after his death. I missed his jealousy . . ."