he handsome, a fascinating young man, and so witty, wise and helpful! Didn't Ulick notice how sensible were his suggestions? Who is Trabadello? Does he teach Wagner rôles? Marchesi can't. She's for such ornamental singers as Melba and Eames. That sort of singing didn't interest her. Flute-playing—nothing stirring or dramatic. She meant to be a Wagner singer, an extraordinary Isolde and Brunnhilde. Keep your Marguerites, your Gildas, Juliettes, yes, even your Carmens. I must conquer Wagner, she triumphantly asserted. Ulick exploded. Possibly the allusions to Godard got on his nerves, anyhow, it was the proper time to put this braggart in her place. "You and your Wagner," he testily exclaimed. "Are you so silly and ignorant as to fancy that you can step out of Madame Ash's solfeggi class straight to the footlights? You are enormously ignorant—don't interrupt me. Frida has told me. Your voice is remarkable, and so is your musical memory. But you have no style, no personality—yes, don't get angry, Easter"—he paused, but her face was averted, and he couldn't tell if she were angry at the familiar address—"personality, I mean in your art; you have enough in life, too much," he ventured. She didn't reply and then they had gone to Moretti's. When they parted she seemed in good humour.