sardonic humor. The cares of an opera season and of three other simultaneous managements weighed on him ponderously, but he supported the burden with stoicism.

“What is the matter with Alresca to-night?” Sullivan asked. “Suffering the pangs of jealousy, I suppose.”

“Alresca,” Sir Cyril replied, “is the greatest tenor living, and to-night he sings like a variety comedian. But it is not jealousy. There is one thing about Alresca that makes me sometimes think he is not an artist at all — he is incapable of being jealous. I have known hundreds of singers, and he is the one solitary bird among them of that plumage. No, it is not jealousy.”

“Then what is it?”

“I wish I knew. He asked me to go and dine with him this afternoon. You know he dines at four o’clock.