-Let your handkerchief drop on this note, and pick it up, goes on the Count, describing an exceedingly sharp angle and pretending to lose his centre of gravity.

Rosina manages to obtain possession of the loveletter with a deftness worthy of the cleverest prestidigitator, and the row goes on between the Count and Bartolo, the latter in vain alleging that he is exempted from lodging soldiers. The Count pays no heed to his arguments, and in order to scare the old gentleman, draws his bilbo and makes lunges into the empty air. The old fellow yells and the row becomes so great that the authorities intervene, to the great grief of Rosina and the great joy of Bartolo. The police are about to march Lindor off to jail when, brushing aside the alguazils with a haughty and imperious air, he hands the alcalde a letter. The alcalde, after having glanced at it, bows to the ground and signs to his men to release the trooper, who himself withdraws in the swing of a finale full of life, agitation and volubility, such as Rossini alone knows how to compose.

Although Don Bartolo is by no means bright, the drunken soldier business has struck him as very suspicious; jealousy is apt to make even the densest gray

beards clear-sighted. His credulity, however, is about to be tested even more severely. Lindor, or Count Almaviva, if you like that better, returns ere long under the disguise and the name of Alonzo, a supposed pupil of Basilio's, to take the latter's place at the music lesson he is in the habit of giving Rosina.

Bartolo receives him rather sourly, and is hard to convince that Basilio is really as ill as Alonzo pretends. In fact, to the Count's great terror, he has already taken his stick with a view of ascertaining the facts for himself. The Count can think of nothing better than fooling him with a supposed piece of confidential information, and hands him Rosina's note. Reassured by this proof of devotion to his interests, Bartolo goes to fetch the girl from her room and allows her to take her lesson with her new teacher. People talk of the lynx's eyes; a lynx is no better than a mole in comparison with a girl in love; Bartolo's ward has seen at a glance who it is she is going to sing with.

The piano is pulled forward, and the Count glances over the music lying upon it.

- What shall we sing?

- This rondo by Buranello.

It is too old, answers Rosina.

ART AND CRITICISM

This bolero?

-It is miauled every night under every window; it is sickening, puts in Bartolo.

- A Venetian barcarole?

That will do.

Whereupon the Count sets Rosina to sing a charming melody for which the singers who take this part are foolish enough to substitute very difficult and very wearisome show pieces. The words are delightful:

"A golden-haired maid in my gondola the other night I took. The little dear from sheer pleasure fell asleep, and on my arm lay dozing. From time to time. I woke her, and the rocking of the craft cradled her to sleep again."

The situation could not be much prolonged did not clever Figaro come to Count Almaviva's help, for the nobleman, like Lelio, Mascarille's master, is not a person of ready resource. Figaro persuades Bartolo that this is the day on which he is shaved, and under pretext of fetching the necessary utensils, gets hold of his bunch of keys, quick as a monkey abstracts the key that opens the balcony gate, and by innumerable tricks, each more ridiculous than the others, gives the lovers time to settle