It is difficult to tell the story of Irish folk intimately and convincingly, the bare truths concerning their splendid reck-lessness, their unproductive ardor, their loyalty and creative memories, sounding to another race like a pack of lies. When, therefore, I recall "The Singing woman," Katrine; her beauty, her fearlessness, her loyalty, her voice of gold - it seems as if only one lost to caution and heedless of consequence would undertake her history expecting it to be believed. But there is this advantage: the newspapers, recording much of her early life, are still extant, her Paris work discussed by Josef's pupils to this day, and her divine forgetfulness the night she was to sing at the Metropolitan a known thing to people of two continents; but unrecorded of her, till now, is that, for love, like brave, mad Antony, she threw a world away.