As she had said, a regular little suite had been allotted to our hostess at the Opera House. As well as the dressingroom, there was a bathroom and a large sitting-room, with flowers everywhere, and beautifully furnished. Here I waited, wondering a little. The others had passed into the dressing-room.
Presently Yvonne, the French maid, entered the room.
"Mademoiselle recovers, monsieur," she said, with a smile. "Also she dines here, and monsieur with her. It is all arranged.
"If you please," said I. It seemed about the best thing to say.
Very swiftly she laid the table for two—a cold chicken, some salad, rolls, and a bottle of champagne. Thank you.
"It is not much," said Yvonne apologetically. "Now at Madame's house—"
"Yvonne!" came from the dressing-room.
"Pardon, monsieur."
Yvonne disappeared. Five minutes later a telephone bell rang. Then the dressing-room door opened, and Madame came forth robed, and the girl with her, looking as right as rain.
"That was my call," said our hostess. "I go to sing now. By the time you have finished, I shall be back, and then, later, if you would like to sit in a box for a little while, it will be quiet for you both. Come, Yvonne."