The Hippodrome. Rachel Hayward

in the same place, and more than once there were alarms and rumours of a visit from the police.

      As the days wore on Emile found new reason to congratulate himself upon his discovery of "Fatalité," as he had nicknamed the girl. She had shown herself possessed of a charming temper, a fine intelligence, and a most complete understanding of the law of obedience.

      She made no comments on anything she was asked to do, but delivered messages and ran errands after the manner of a machine in good working order. Even Sobrenski, who hated all women, was obliged to admit her usefulness.

      She was on pleasant terms with everybody down to the strappers—the men who harnessed the Hippodrome horses—who adored her. Even the cynical Manager was impressed by her pluck and skill, though he considered it his privilege to regale her with comments on her personal peculiarities.

      The time arrived for her first performance at the Hippodrome. She made her appearance in the ring in a turquoise blue habit, trimmed hussar-fashion with much braid, and a plumed Cavalier hat, the dusky shadows under her eyes accentuated, and her face powdered. The Manager would not allow her to use rouge, so under the glaring electric lights she appeared more than ever spiritual and unearthly.

      Her type, he said, did not require colour; and the people preferred anything morbid in the shape of looks.

      Emile, who was among the audience on the first night, thought she looked like a thorough-bred racer as she made a dignified entrance to a clanging stately gavotte crashed out by the band. He had given her dresser a couple of pesetas to have her well turned out, and the result was exceedingly satisfactory even to his critical eyes.

      Her little head with its piled red hair was carried marvellously high, and she swayed daintily on the back of the high-stepping Don Juan. She bowed gravely to the various parts of the house, but she had no stereotyped smile either for the boxes or for the lower seats. Her slender figure gave the impression of great strength for a young girl.

      "Steel in a velvet sheath, ma foi! Body and soul!" was Emile's inward comment. "So much the better for the Cause."

      A Spanish crowd usually gives but a languid reception unless roused by something either horrible or sensational, but her bizarre appearance had the effect which the Manager had foreseen.

      In the second act she apparently changed her personality with her clothes, and whirled in astride over two horses with neither saddle nor bridle, guiding them and keeping them together by the pressure of her feet. She had full skirts, to her knees, of white satin, and pearl-coloured silk stockings. Her satin bodice was cut heart-shaped and there was a high jewelled band round her long throat. Her hair hung down in a thick plait, tied with a bow of blue velvet.

      The horses tore round the ring at full gallop; she jumped over gates and through hoops, and ended her performance by leaping off one of the horses which was caught by a groom, and flinging herself on to the other, face to the tail, for a final reckless canter round the arena.

      The brilliance and nerve with which she carried through the trick, roused the enthusiasm it deserved, and Arithelli passed out panting and triumphant to the accompaniment of music and cheers, and showered roses and carnations.

      The part of her work that she most abhorred was the eight o'clock compulsory visit to the stables. A circus life is not prone to encourage the virtue of early rising, and she was by nature indolent in a panther-like fashion, and was never in bed till half-past one or two in the morning. If she had known a little more she could have protested on the grounds that her position of leading lady did not involve the feeding of her animals. She did it as she had done other things without complaint, and presently Emile came to the rescue. He knew as much about the habits and requirements of horses as he knew about shop-keeping, being entirely ignorant of both.

      "How much are the brutes to have?" he asked of the Manager. "And what on earth do you give them?"

      "Oh, I generally give 'em fish," was the sarcastic answer. "What are you doing here, Poleski? This is the girl's business. I thought she was keen on her horses."

      "She is also keen on her bed," Emile answered. "She does her share of work."

      The Manager grumbled, but the new arrangement was allowed to stand.

      Arithelli did not consort with the other female members of the

       Hippodrome.

      The one exception was Estelle the dancer, with whom Emile allowed her a slight acquaintance. He neither approved of women in general nor of their friendships. Estelle was the bonne amie of the sardonic Manager, who occasionally beat her, after which ceremony it was her custom to drink absinthe. Sometimes, for this reason, she was unable to appear on the stage. She would come into Arithelli's dressing room and weep, and smoke innumerable cigarettes, and when things had been going well, they made a partie carrée at the Café Colomb.

      By way of advertising herself and her performance Arithelli was given a high, smartly painted carriage in which she drove in the fashionable promenade of Barcelona, the Paséo de Gracia, with three of the cream-coloured horses lightly harnessed and jingling with bells.

      On these occasions Emile played the part of lady's maid and escort. He selected her dress, fastened it, scolded her for putting her hat on crooked, and laced up her preposterously high boots.

      Then he adjusted the battered sombrero, lit a cigarette and drove beside her, scowling as usual.

      The appearance of both was sufficiently arresting. Arithelli drove as she rode, recklessly, and yet with science. Her thin wrists and long girlish arms were capable of controlling the most fiery animal.

      She had made Emile her banker, and always handed over to him her weekly salary, some of which went to the expenses of the Cause as well as a certain portion in fines, for she had no idea of time and was never ready for anything.

      Nearly every night before she was half-way into her habit the call-boy came screaming down the passage, calling with the free-and-easy manners prevalent behind the scenes:

      "Hurry up, Arithelli, or there'll be a row!"

      The question of a disguise for her was discussed at one of the meetings of the Brotherhood, and it was decided that she should appear as a boy. Her height would be an advantage, and her long hands and feet would also help the illusion in a country where every woman possesses small, plump and highly arched extremities. Besides, when they had to ride out to places at night, she would be less noticeable. One girl among a crowd of men might attract suspicion, though in the daytime she was more useful as a woman.

      It naturally fell upon Emile to provide the details of her transformation, and he presented himself at her lodgings one afternoon, bearing an ungainly parcel which he deposited on the table.

      "You'd better try these on," he said. "There is a complete suit of boy's clothes, a wig and everything you'll want. You will have to put your own hair out of the way somehow."

      It was the drowsy hour of the siesta, when no one moved out if he could help it, and all work and play were at a standstill. Arithelli was sitting, as was her custom, absorbed in her own thoughts and dreams. For a moment she stared with uncomprehending eyes. She felt tired, she wanted to be alone, and she had not heard a single word. Emile shrugged irritably and repeated his remarks.

      "Oh, yes," said Arithelli. She rose slowly, took up the parcel and retired into seclusion behind the curtains, with which she had screened off the alcove and so made herself an improvised dressing room. The rest of the apartment she had altered to look as much like a sitting room as possible, with the exception of the obtrusive four-poster, which could not be hidden and which upon entering appeared the most salient feature visible. There was some tawdry jewellery lying about, and several pairs of the pale-hued Parisian boots she invariably affected. Emile made and lighted the inevitable cigarette, while he fidgeted about, turning over the few French and English novels he could find with an air of disapproval; for her taste in literature did not commend itself to him any more than did her taste in finery.

      At one period of his life he had steeped himself