Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1910-11-27

| to believe it will, why then Sweetheart"
1t was the first thunderclap bearing its
bolt of lightning. Miss Payton stiffened as
if she had been struck. "a nice voice." she
interrupted, doesn't excuse presumption.
| My finance Count d 'Accolta, has valet who
sings quite as we'll or better than Mr.. Miles.
see the value of Uncle's preachment: One
cannot be too careful in whom one takes an
interest. Will you kindly take me back to
the others, sir?"
WET it was largely through the influence
of PAXTON, among the Metropolitan
directors, that Miles, following his three
brilliant seasons under Everheim, passed
into the Metropolitan organization, to shine
among its galaxy of world stars and sing
before the diamond horseshoe. Payton had
duly, if tardily, learned the identity of the
young singer and felt a natural proprietary
pride. Indeed, his favorite narrative was of
his own and his niece's discovery of the
COWBOY Tenor" and their joint immediate
recognition of the seeds of future greatness
within him.
Miles made his Metropolitan debut in
| Boheme." If such things were not so in
expressibly transient, the occasion would
| still be historical. Certainly no such dem
onstration had ever been witnessed at the
| first appearance of any unstamped, unreg-
istered artist. -.
Countess d'Accolta Whose husband Of
| three score had survived his last great
effort to retrieve the family fortunes by
just six months( was present in the full
glory of her widowhood. Her party and
| that of her uncle filled two boxes near the
| middle of the diamond horseshoe. They
filled them to OVERLOOKING, aggregating a
| distinguished, slightly laconic, oftimes in
decorous dozen of Princes, stock gamblers,
wives of milionaires. divorces of million
aires. But the Countess, as will be recalled,
was intensely musical. She tolerated no
badinage or repartee during the progress of
| the opera. Their attention was exceptional.
The Countess filled both sides of her card
with writing from jeweled pencil, care
| fully sealed the same in an envelop brought
her by an usher, and sent the message back
| to Miles. She awaited the answer for two
acts, latterly gnawing at her thin under lip
behind her huge black ostrich fan. She had
quite certain. Always thus, had it been her
fate to be victmized by paradoxical touches
of indiscretion in herself. She had written:
I can still hear your voice, waiting and curl
ing over the mesquite shrubs. against the star
| light. Can we not turn back yesterday which
was all misconceived and wrong? With your
permission my will await you. to carry you
| to my home, where my uncle and dozen OF our
| friends do but ask opportunity to do you fur
| Their honor W1NIFRED.
At the end of the music play she stood at
the threshold of her box, tapping her foot.
She had counted on his acquiescence,
counted on it enough to announce her lion
in advance to her guests. She had directed
them to 60 on while her maid adjusted her
wraps She knew they awaited her now be-
low, doubtless in impatient wonderment at
| her tarrying.
| The usher appeared at last, smiling and
smooth, his manner redolent of youthful
sophistication. The Countess had swallowed
her pride to the last allowance; she had
sent this usher in pursuit of, in demand of,
a reply.
He had brought one at last She read it,
flushed deeply, and glanced sidewise to see
how closely the usher watched her.
The reply read:
| In the great haste of Mr.. Miles, who has al
ready left the theater, his secretary takes occa-
| sion to thank the Countess d'Accolta. and to
repeat to her Mr. Miles verbal message, which
| the secretary does not profess to understand
Tell the Countess d'Accolta,'' directed Mr.
Miles, that Texan pony may sometimes
| trespass on the land of dreams; but never may
1 IL lx4