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 listened 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 …