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Probably you would find, if you got at the truth, some animal of a baritono robuato, who owns the Diva's heart, and for whom she works and slaves." "Poverina! there are the Castelmare carriages coming round again."
A minute afterwards, the purple patch suddenly appeared from a shop and almost collided with her. It was not Diva at all, but Diva's Janet.
This was more than could be borne, and Miss Mapp hastily interrupted. "Au reservoir, Diva dear," she said with extreme acerbity, and Diva's feet began swiftly revolving again. The problem about the bridge-party thus seemed to be solved.
Miss Mapp crossed the street to the pavement below Diva's house, and precisely as she reached it, Diva's maid opened the door into the drawing-room, bringing in the second post, or rather not bringing in the second post, but the announcement that there wasn't any second post.
"Darling Diva's always getting hold of the most erroneous information. She must have been listening to servants' gossip. So glad she's wrong about it." Mr. Wyse made one of his stately inclinations of the head. "Amelia will regret very much not being here to-night," he said, "for I see all the great bridge-players are present." "Oh, Mr. Wyse!" said she.
She had been equally severe on any who might happen to be hoarding food, in case transport was disarranged and supplies fell short, and with a sudden flare of authentic intuition, Diva's mind blazed with the conjecture that Elizabeth was hoarding food as well. He spoke in a lucid telephone-voice.
Diva's mind flew off to the subject of dress, and the thought of the awful tragedy concerning the tea-gown of kingfisher-blue, combined with the endive salad, gave a wry twist to her mouth for a moment. "I, as you know," continued Mr. Wyse, "am no hand at bridge." "Oh, Mr. Wyse, you play beautifully," interpolated Elizabeth. "Too flattering of you, Miss Mapp.
We can fancy what Goethe's mortification was, and how the fair diva's credit was impaired at the court of Weimar by her ignorance of the illustrious poet and of the novel whose fame had rung through all Europe. Mme. Catalani returned to England in 1821, and found herself the subject of an enthusiasm little less than that which had greeted her in her earlier prime.
Miss Mapp was prepared to make a perfect chameleon of hers, if only she could get away from Diva's hue, but what if, having changed, say, to purple, Diva became purple too? She could not stand a third coincidence, and besides, she much doubted whether any gown that had once been of so pronounced a crimson-lake, could successfully attempt to appear of any other hue except perhaps black.
For she was no Adelina Patti not even on the farewellest of the diva's farewell tours. She had a cooing little voice like that of a turtle-dove that could almost fill the parlor when the windows and doors were closed, and Betty was not rattling the lids of the stove in the kitchen.
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