"No?"
"No," I said. "On the contrary, it's where you come in."
She looked up, smiling, at that. I addressed her eyes. "You see, in Life it's just the intervals that count—those rare hours when, though the band's not playing, there's music in the air; though the world's standing still, and no one's looking on, there's most afoot; though the—"
Here the door opened, and Madame came in, Yvonne at her heels.
"It is the interval," she explained. "Thank you."
Oh, but she was in fine fettle, was Madame.
"My voice is good to-night. It is you two that have helped me. You are so young and goodly. And I have a box, the Royal box—they are not using it, you see—if you would like to hear the rest of the opera. Yes? But you must come back and say 'Good night' to me afterwards."
Our murmured thanks she would have none of. Supper and a box was little enough. Had she not nearly killed us both an hour ago?
"But now I shall sing to you, and you will forgive me. I am in voice to-night. Is it not so, Yvonne?"
"But, Madame!"