A faint ray of Roman civilisation had reached him through generations of slaves and serfs and shepherds.

But no such traditions of forgotten delicacy disturbed the manners of Schreiermeyer.

The glass from which he had drunk was good enough for any primadonna in his company, and it was silly for any of them to give themselves airs.

Were they not largely his creatures, fed from his hand, to work for him while they were young, and to be turned out as soon as they began to sing false?
He was by no means the worst of his kind, as Margaret knew very well.
She thought of her childhood, of her mother and of her father, both dead long before she had gone on the stage; and of that excellent and kind Mrs.Rushmore, her American mother's American friend, who had taken her as her own daughter, and had loved her and cared for her, and had shed tears when Margaret insisted on becoming a singer; who had fought for her, too, and had recovered for her a small fortune of which her mother had been cheated.

For Margaret would have been more than well off without her profession, even when she had made her _debut_, and she had given up much to be a singer, believing that she knew what she was doing.
But now she was ready to undo it all and to go back; at least she thought she was, as she stared at herself in the glass while the pale maid drew her hair back and fastened it far above her forehead with a big curved comb, as a preliminary to getting rid of paint and powder.
At this stage of the operation the Primadonna was neither Cordova nor Margaret Donne; there was something terrifying about the exaggeratedly painted mask when the wig was gone and her natural hair was drawn tightly back.