“And has anything happened to alter your previous opinion?” inquired Madame Quéro in a faltering voice.
Again the young Italian made a movement to pass on, and again the impetuous woman detained him.
“If you please, we will not leave it where it is, with studied coldness on your part. Please tell me how I have offended you.”
Nello spoke with exaggerated courtesy. “Madame, I am too humble to have the right to be offended. I, the mere Director of an Opera, you, one of the idols of Europe.”
The prima donna stamped an impatient foot. “Signor Corsini, you are trying my patience unduly. It is easy to see that you have some fancied grievance. Will you be good enough to explain what it is, or at any rate the nature of it?”
Corsini looked at her steadily. “Madame, you have been good enough to call me your friend. If that is the case, why have I not been invited to those little private suppers at your villa? So many go, that one more would not have made a serious addition.”
Her face went as white as death. “Who has told you such a falsehood?” she stammered.
Nello never took his eyes off her. The white face, the stammering tongue, proved that Golitzine was right. She had secret parties at her villa, and she was dismayed to find that anybody had heard of them.
“A friend of mine, whose name I must not reveal, Madame.”