It was decided in less than a year from the death of Dora Harrington, that the Scala had done all it could for Lavirotte. Eugene O'Donnell was to tarry still a month or so, and Lavirotte decided not to leave Milan until his friend was ready to go. During these twelve months Lavirotte had been studiously quiet. He had given all his attention to his business, and if there ever had been any weakness on his part towards Luigia, the death of Dora and his visit to London seemed to have put an end to it. Daily he had seen the O'Donnells. Daily he had shaken the hands of Eugene and Nellie. Daily he had seen their boy, and danced him in his arms, or played with him, or sung to him. He had said privately to Eugene: "Once upon a time, when I was mad, I was in love with your wife. Now I think I am in love with your boy. You know I am the last living member of my race. I am still a young man, it is true, but I shall never marry. My heart is in the grave with Dora. Still I cannot help feeling that I should like to leave behind me someone with my name. It was never a great name, as you know; yet once upon a time a Lavirotte did something, and if the blood were continued, it might do something again. But all is over now, and my race is at an end. All is over, and there will be no more of mine." To such speeches as these, O'Donnell had replied jestingly, saying: "You will be a widower twice before you die. Mind, I shall be godfather to your eldest boy." Lavirotte would simply shake his head sadly, and say: "Ay, you shall be godfather, if ever there is need of one." Then he would shake his head again, and sigh, and change the subject of conversation, as though it were distasteful to him. So the time slipped away, until at last it was decided that Eugene should leave. Neither he nor Lavirotte had by this time much money left, and each felt the necessity of procuring immediate employment. When they reached London they took lodgings in Percy Street, Fitzroy Square. It was pleasant to be back once more within the sound of the familiar tongue. Italy, with its blue skies and melodious language, was a thing "to dream of, not to see." Not as in the weird poem, a thing of terror, but a thing of joy in memory, rather than of joy in experience. For, Frenchman though Lavirotte was by descent and birth, he was now more familiar with the northern idiom, and all his thoughts were framed in that tongue. Both to him and O'Donnell it was a relief to cease translating. When they were at Milan, no matter how familiar the idea which presented itself, it had to be shifted from the accustomed words into other words. Now each could listen at leisure, and drink in meanings without effort, and communicate ideas with, as it were, the primitive effort of the mere tongue. Here was luxurious ease compared to toilful effort. Here was a privilege greater than all the consciousness of having overcome an unaccustomed dialect. To think as freely as one who thinks in dreams, and utter one's thoughts as unsuspiciously as the rudest peasant who has never contemplated the possibility of error in his speech, was a new luxury, an unexpected, a seemingly undeserved boon, presented every morning at waking, and not withdrawn when the curtains of the night were closed. It was pleasant to get back once more to the familiar living, the familiar cooking, even the familiar dulness of the atmosphere. The evenings were already getting short, and more than one fog had visited London that season. But although Eugene and Lavirotte found themselves once more in London, fully equipped for the ocean in which each meant to launch himself, to neither did it seem there was any immediate chance of employment; and, in fact, all arrangements had been made for the remainder of that season. Each found it necessary to practise the strictest economy. Lavirotte had still something left, and only that Eugene's father was able to spare, out of the little which remained to him from the wreck of his fortune, something for his son, Eugene, his wife and child might have known what absolute hunger was. Eugene had two rooms, and Lavirotte one. They did not live in the same house, but they met daily, Lavirotte coming to Eugene's place, and spending an hour or so in the evening with his friend. "I shall not be able to hold out," said Lavirotte on one occasion, "more than a couple or three months, if something doesn't turn up." "I should not have been able to hold out so long," said Eugene, "only that my father was able to lend me a hand." "It's weary work, waiting," said Lavirotte. "But still, I do not despair." "Not only do I not despair," said Eugene, "but I mean to succeed. Neither of us is a fool, and there are worse men, at our business, making a living in London. Why should we starve?" These were gallant words, but facts were hard upon the two. Lavirotte was the first to meet with a piece of luck. It was not much. In some remote kind of way, through Cassidy's agency, he was asked to sing at a concert in Islington, and got a guinea for the night. When the expenses of gloves and a cab were taken out of this guinea, very little remained as remuneration to the singer. But still it was better to do something than nothing, and Lavirotte was a few shillings less poor by the transaction. Although he had not even yet abandoned hope of getting a hundred pounds a night, he no longer thought it likely he would reach such an El Dorado soon. He would have been very glad to take ten pounds a night; ay, to take ten pounds a week. He would have been glad to take a pound a night. Eugene had told him that he, Eugene, would be glad to sing for nothing if he could only get an "appearance." Each assured the other that he was worth half-a-dozen of those in the ruck of singers. Each told the other, with perfect candour, he estimated his friend's value at not a penny less than fifty pounds a week. And yet each would there and then have been glad to sign an agreement at five pounds a week. Mr. John Cassidy had no longer any great interest in either of the pair. There was no longer anything to be found out about them. Cassidy was not, in grain, unprincipled or immoral. He did not love mischief for mischief sake. He was simply a feeble, crawling thing. He could not help crawling. But he felt very much pleased at being able to befriend Lavirotte. He owed no grudge to either man. In fact, he felt a certain kind of gratitude to Lavirotte for having once supplied him with a matter in which he took a deep interest. He was still employed at the railway; and the concert, in which Lavirotte sang, was one got up with a view to supplying means of presenting a testimonial to a superannuated servant of the company. There was, of course, no chance of a similar engagement coming Lavirotte's way. Eugene was present that night, and heard his friend sing. In all likelihood there never yet was a tenor absolutely free from jealousy, and Eugene felt he would like to be in Lavirotte's shoes, and he was certain he could have done at least as well as his friend. Nay, if the truth must be told, he was certain he could do better. Lavirotte, on his side, was haunted by an uneasy feeling of the same kind. His success was undoubted; but he knew very well that it was acquired by what Eugene would call noise. He got as much applause as the heart of man could desire. He got two "encores." He was congratulated by the secretary and treasurer to the fund, and at the supper which followed the concert, he sang the "Bay of Biscay" with tremendous power and effect. Eugene was at that supper also, and in response to the chairman's invitation, an invitation suggested by Lavirotte, he sang. Eugene sang "My pretty Jane;" and then, partly because Eugene's tender rendering of the ballad came upon those present as a surprise, and partly because Lavirotte's public performance had prepared them, and partly because Lavirotte's singing was so ill-proportioned to the room in which the supper was given that it hurt, almost, they did not encore Lavirotte, and they did encore Eugene. And then Eugene, with great discretion and modesty, sang no new song, but repeated the last stanza of "My pretty Jane," and sang it gentler than he had at first, singing as though it were a thing of no matter, no effort, as though he could not keep the melody back, but must, in good-humoured ease, let it float from him as a man lets pleasant talk float from him when he is in a careless mood. Then, when Eugene was done there was no tumult of applause. There was just only a murmur, which showed that men's hearts, and not their admiration, were stirred. Two men who were not near him came and shook hands with him silently. No one had shaken hands with Lavirotte. That night, Eugene O'Donnell told his wife that his song at that supper had been more successful than Lavirotte's. That night, Lavirotte told his heart the same story.