The only members of the profession who hated her were the other lyric sopranos.

Schreiermeyer, rapacious and glittering, had a photograph of her hideously enamelled in colours inside the cover of his watch, and the facsimile of her autograph was engraved across the lid of his silver cigarette-case.
Pompeo Stromboli carried some of her hair in a locket which he wore on his chain between two amulets against the Evil Eye.

Fraeulein Ottilie treasured a little water-colour sketch of her as Juliet on which Margaret had written a few friendly words, and the Baci-Roventi actually went to the length of asking her advice about the high notes the contralto has to sing in such operas as _Semiramide_.

It would be hard to imagine a more sincere proof of affection and admiration than this.
Margaret knew that the greeting was genuine and that she ought to be pleased, but at the first moment the noise and the kissing and the rough promiscuity of it all disgusted her.
Then she saw that all had brought her little presents, which were arranged side by side on the piano, and she suddenly remembered that it was her birthday.

They were small things without value, intended to make her laugh.