Anna the Adventuress

"You know," he said with some hesitation, "that your sister is

singing."

She nodded.

"Of course. I want to hear how she does it."

"She does it magnificently," he declared. "I think--we all think that

she is wonderful."

She looked at him with curious eyes.

"I remember," she said, "that the first night I saw you, you spoke of

my sister as your friend. Have you seen much of her lately?"

"Nothing at all," he answered.

The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently

backwards and forwards. She was watching him intently.

"Do you know," she said, "that every one is remarking how ill you

look. I too can see it. What has been the matter?"

"Toothache," he answered laconically.

She looked away.

"You might at least," she murmured, "have invented a more romantic

reason."

"Oh, I might," he answered, "have gone further still. I might have

told you the truth."

"Has my sister been unkind to you?"

"The family," he declared, "has not treated me with consideration."

She looked at him doubtfully.

"You promised faithfully to be there," he said slowly. "I loathe

afternoon concerts, and----"

She was really like her sister he thought, impressed for a moment by

the soft brilliancy of her smile. Her fingers rested upon his.

"You were really at Moulton House," she exclaimed penitently. "I am so

sorry. I had a perfect shoal of callers. People who would not go. I

only arrived when everybody was coming away."

A little murmur of expectation, an audible silence announced the

coming of "Alcide." Then a burst of applause. She was standing there,

smiling at the audience as at her friends. From the first there had

always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy

which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. Then she

sang.

Ennison listened, and his eyes glowed. Lady Ferringhall listened, and

her cheeks grew pale. Her whole face stiffened with suppressed anger.

She forgot Anna's sacrifices, forgot her own callousness, forgot the

burden which she had fastened upon her sister's shoulders. She was

fiercely and bitterly jealous. Anna was singing as she used to sing.

She was _chic_, distinguished, unusual. What right had she to call

herself "Alcide"? It was abominable, an imposture. Ennison listened,

and he forgot where he was. He forgot Annabel's idle attempts at

love-making, all the _cul-de-sac_ gallantry of the moment. The

cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little

world fell away from him. He leaned forward, and looked into the eyes

of the woman he loved, and it seemed to him that she sang back to him

with a sudden note of something like passion breaking here and there

through the gay mocking words which flowed with such effortless and

seductive music from her lips.