Mariposa looked from one to the other with beaming eyes, hardly able to believe it all.
“You really did like it, then?” she said to Lepine with her most ingenuous air.
He shrugged his shoulders, with a queer French expression of quizzical amusement.
“It was a truly interesting performance, and after a period of study with a good master it should be a truly delightful one.”
The Italian, to whom these sentences were only half intelligible, now broke in with a quick series of sonorous phrases, directed to Lepine, but now and then turned upon Shackleton. Mariposa’s eyes went from one to the other in an effort to understand. The impresario, listening with frowning intentness, responded with a nod and a word of brusk acquiescence. Turning to Shackleton, he said:
“Tojetti also thinks that the appearance of Mademoiselle is much in her favor. She has an admirable stage presence”—he looked at Mariposa as if she were a piece of furniture he was appraising. “Her height alone is of inestimable value. She would have at least five feet eight or nine inches.”
At this moment the lady in the box, who had risen to her feet, and was leaning against the railing, called suddenly:
“Lepine, vraiment une belle voix, et aussi une belle fille! Vous avez fait une trouvaille.”
Lepine wheeled round to his star, who in the shadowy light stood, a pale-colored, burly figure, buttoning her ulster over her redundant chest.
“A moment,” he said, apologetically to the others, and, running to the box, stood with his head back, talking to her, while the prima donna leaned over and a rapid interchange of French sentences passed between them.