Yet Margaret was working at her music, with persevering regularity,

quite convinced that she must soon support herself unhelped and quite

sure that her voice was her only means to that end. Singing was her

only accomplishment, and she therefore supposed that the gift, such as

it was, must be her only talent.

She was modest about it, for the very reason that she believed it was

what she did best, and she was patient because she knew that she must

do it well before she could hope to live by it. Most successful singers

had appeared in public before reaching her age, yet she was only two

and twenty, and a year or two could make no great difference.

Nevertheless, she was more anxious than she would have admitted, and

she had persuaded her teacher to let her sing to Madame Bonanni, the

celebrated lyric soprano, whose opinion would be worth having, and

perhaps final. The great singer had the reputation of being very

good-natured in such cases and was on friendly terms with Margaret's

teacher, the latter being a retired prima donna. Margaret felt sure of

a fair hearing, therefore, and it was for this trial that she was going

to the city on the following morning.

Neither she nor Lushington spoke for a long time after she had given

him the information. She took up her book again, but she read without

paying any attention to the words, for the recollection of what was

coming had brought back all her anxiety about her future life. It would

be a dreadful thing if Madame Bonanni should tell her frankly that she

had no real talent and had better give it up. The great artist would

say what she thought, without wasting time or sympathy; that was why

Margaret was going to her. Women do not flatter women unless they have

something to gain, whereas men often flatter them for the mere pleasure

of seeing them smile, which is an innocent pastime in itself, though

the consequences are sometimes disastrous.

Edmund Lushington had at first been wondering why Margaret was going to

Paris the next day, then he had inwardly framed several ingenious

questions which he might ask her; and then, as he thought of her, he

had forgotten himself at last, and had momentarily escaped from the

terrible and morbid obligation of putting his thoughts into unspoken

words, which is one of the torments that pursue men of letters when

they are tired, or annoyed, or distressed. He had forgotten his

troubles, too, whatever they were, and could listen to the music spring

was making in the trees, without feeling that he might be forced to

describe it.




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