“One hears more and more of her every day, over here,” she added. “So many English people have become convinced that it is their duty to admire Wagner, and are making conscientious efforts. They not only go to Bayreuth, but these last two or three years they have taken in Munich on their way to the Riviera or Italy. Some of the artists, too, come back raving over her. No doubt they really understand Wagner. Do you meet her off the stage?”
“Rarely.”
“Is she supposed to be educated?”
“Educated? She is a highly accomplished woman—has furnished all her little rooms, I should think.” He smiled and turned to Mabel, who was feeding the pug.
“Ah! you know her?” Mrs. Cutting’s voice was very smooth. “She is not received?”
“Rather!”
“How interesting! And how odd—that she should be—well, like that—and received. There are stories.” She glanced significantly at the averted head of her young daughter. It was patent that Mabel was not to be permitted to furnish any of her vacant cells in the primal colours.
Ordham lifted his shoulders. “She is a great artist. In Munich that suffices. And now, at least, I fancy that little but her art interests her. Her life is one long act of devotion and sacrifice.”
“Nevertheless,” said Mrs. Cutting, as Mabel, having boxed the ears of LaLa for spilling his cream, was escorting him to the door, “she had better not return to New York.”
Ordham’s eyes, suddenly large and cold, interrogated her.