The second time I heard Alboni was at a concert given in a private house in Welbeck Street, Cavendish Square, by Alessandro Romili, a young Italian who, prior to the war, had acted as accompanist in Paris to the well-known singer and teacher Delle Sedie. I recollect how perfectly she sang some French pieces and a new romanza ("II primo amore," I think it was called) expressly composed for her by Romili. But what dwells most vividly in my memory in connection with this concert is her extreme kindness to my brother Max, who was down in the same programme for a violin solo. The great artist insisted on sitting among the audience to listen to the little English fiddler (then about thirteen); and he had just started his solo when one of his strings broke. He gave one glance of consternation round the room and then incontinently burst into tears. The audience looked half amused ; but Alboni rose from her seat, walked to my brother, and, kissing him upon the forehead, said, loudly enough for every one to hear, "N'importe, mon petit ami; ne pleurs pas! Get accident-la aurait pu arriver a Sivori lui-meme!" Whereupon the boy dried his tears, mended his string, and went through his solo with entire success.