As for the singing, I am pledged to be mute, parole d'honneur.

But you must be in my first audience.
I must keep an artist's faith with my manager." "I shall have the loge d'honneur at your debut," enthusiastically cried Clayton, as he lingered over her frankly extended hand after murmuring his acceptance.
The woman who sat, with her head bowed upon her hands, listened to his receding footsteps.

"Il Regalantuomo," she murmured.

"It is a pity, too! What does Fritz want of him ?" Then gliding serpent-like from the darkened corridor, she joined the waiting woman in the carriage below, a woman whose form was but dimly defined beyond the half-lowered silken curtain of the carriage as Randall Clayton sped along to his money mill.
Some indefinable impulse kept Clayton from speaking of his breakfast engagement as he strode into the Newport Art Gallery.

His cheque for one hundred and twenty-five dollars was soon transferred to Lilienthal in return for the coveted picture, which was dispatched to the young man's lonely apartment.
"Not a bad turn," mused Adolf Lilienthal.