artificial flowers in her bosom, and wearing black mittens on her hands, then stepped nervously on the platform, and began to sing, in a weak faltering voice, a few verses of an Italian song, the purport of which did not reach us at our end of the room. She was suffering from extreme nervousness, and broke down twice or three times in the song she was endeavouring to sing.
I don't think I ever witnessed a more melancholy spectacle. The poor lady was received with an ironical cheer, which, in her innocence, she accepted as a compliment, and every verse was hailed with derisive shouts, which even she was unable to mistake; so uttering an apology to the conductor who appeared to be remonstrating with her in no measured terms, she left the stage amid a whirl of hooting and cat-calls, which did not cease until a Favourite Delineator of Negro Peculiarities appeared, when it changed to a shout of applause.
"Maxwell," said I, "don't you know that poor woman's face?"
"No; I didn't notice her, poor creature."
"It's Mrs. Talboys," said I.
"Impossible!"
"But it is. I'm nearly sure of it. Here, waiter, who was the last singer?"
"What, her as made a mess on it?"
"Yes."
"Bernardini—Madame Bernardini. It's her first night—she's on trial for an engagement. And," he added, "I expect it's her last."
