CLARE was absorbed in her singing—she seemed to be quite unaware of the fact that there was anything unusual in the introduction of the second voice—indeed she appeared to be unconscious of everything but the realisation of the aims of the composer.

Agnes did not make any attempt to interrupt her, and the duet went on to its passionate close. But so soon as the last notes had died away, the phrase was repeated, after a little pause, by the singer outside.

“Beating against dawn's silver door,

The song has fled over sea, over sea;

Morn's music to thee is for evermore—

But what is for me, love, what is for me?”

The passionate cry was repeated with startling effect. But not until the last note had sounded did Clare spring from her seat at the piano. She stood in the centre of the room in the attitude of an eager listener. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were still tremulous with the tears that evermore rushed to them when singing that song. She listened, but no further note came from that mysterious voice. The night was silent.

The girl turned to Agnes; a little frown was on her face, but still it was roseate, and she gave a laugh.

“I did not think that he could possibly be so great a fool,” she said, as if communing with herself.

“A fool!” cried Agnes. “Is it possible that you know who it is that sang? I thought that I was dreaming when I first heard that voice; and then—but you know who it is?”

“He said he would follow me to England—to the world's end,” laughed Clare. “Oh, these Italians have got no idea of things—the serenade needs an Italian sky—warmth and moonlight and the scent of orange blossoms, and the nightingale among the pomegranates. The serenade is natural with such surroundings; but in England, toward the end of November—oh, the notion is only ridiculous! He will have a cold to-morrow that may ruin his career. His tenor is of an exceptional quality, the maestro said: it cannot stand any strain, to say nothing of the open-air on a November night. What a fool he is!”

“You have not yet told me what his name is,” said Agnes.

“What? Surely I told you all about Ciro Rodani?”

“Some weeks ago you mentioned the fact that you had a friend of that name, and that he had taken a part in an opera produced some time ago, and sent you a newspaper with an account of—of his success. You did not say that he was still in England.”

“He didn't remain in England. He was in Paris when I last heard of him. He must have learned from Signor Marini that I was here. The maestro is the only one who knows my address. Oh, how silly he has been!”

Agnes threw herself back in her chair and laughed. But Clare did not laugh—at first. On the contrary, she flushed and frowned, standing in the middle of the room. At last she laughed in unison with Agnes, as the latter said:

“What a pretty little romance I have come upon all at once! Ah, my dear, I wondered how it was possible for you to remain in Italy so long without making victims of some of that susceptible nation. Poor Signor Rodani! But it was only natural. You studied together the most alluring of the arts—he a tenor, you a soprano. That is how the operas are cast, is it not? The tenor is invariably paired off with the soprano. But alas, he is not always such a marvel of fidelity as your friend outside. By the way, I hope he is not still in the garden. He will not form any exaggerated idea of English hospitality if we allow him to remain outside on so cold a night; but still, it is very late—too late for a couple of lone women to entertain a visitor, especially when that visitor is an operatic tenor.”

“Oh, he has gone away, you may be sure,” said Clare. “Besides, he should know that houses in this country have knockers and bells. Why shouldn't he behave like a civilised person though he is a tenor?”

“I'm afraid that you've become sadly prosaic since you arrived in England,” said Agnes. “Where is the romance in behaving like ordinary people? Knockers and bells are for prosaic people; the serenade and the guitar are for operatic tenors. I shouldn't wonder if your friend did a little in the guitar line also.”

“He does a great deal in it,” laughed the girl. “Thank goodness he spared us the guitar.”

“The thought of a young man going out in cold blood to serenade a young woman on a November night is too terrible. I only hope he does not travel with one of those wonderful silk rope ladders which play so important a part in the lyric stage.”

“Goodness only knows,” said Clare, shaking her head despondently. “When there's a romantic man at large nobody can tell what may happen.”

“Is it possible that you do not respond with the least feeling of tenderness to such devotion?” said Agnes. “Is it possible that you have the courage to run counter to the best established traditions in this affair? Think of your duty as a soprano.”

“I thought that I had given him a sufficient answer long ago,” said Clare, frowning. “He has fancied himself in love with a score of the girls who sang duets with him. Girls, did I say? Why, I heard that he was continually at the feet of Madame Scherzo before he saw me, and the Scherzo has sons older than he is, and besides—well, she isn't any longer what you'd call slim.”

“No, she wasn't even slim when I was a girl,” said Agnes. “But, my dear, you must remember that a tenor is a tenor.”

“Somebody once said that a tenor was a malady,” said Clare. “I do wish that this particular complaint had remained in Milan. Heavens! Why should I be troubled with him just when I need to give all my thoughts to my work? He is sure to come back to-morrow, and this time he will ring the bell.”

“You can scarcely refuse to see him,” said Agnes. “But are you really certain of yourself? Are you sure that you have no tender regard for him?”

“I think I am pretty sure,” replied the girl. “I never was in the least moved by his sighs and his prayers—I was only moved to laughter—when he wasn't near, of course. If I had laughed when he was present he would have killed either me or himself.”

“The only way by which a girl can be certain that she does not love one man is to be certain that she loves another,” said Agnes. “I wonder if Signor Rodani has a rival?”

She glanced at Clare's face: it was blazing. The laugh she gave was a very uneasy one. Agnes became interested. Seeing these signs she rose from her chair, and went across the room to the girl, laying her hands on her shoulders, and looking searchingly down into her face. Clare, however, declined to meet her gaze. She only glanced up for a second. Then she turned to one side and laid a hand on the keys of the piano, pressing them down so gently as to produce no sound.

Agnes laughed as she raised her hands from the girl's shoulders.

“I am answered,” she said. “You have told me all that your heart has to tell. I will ask you nothing more. Oh, I wondered how it was possible for so sweet a girl as you to escape.”

Clare sprang to her feet and threw her arms about the neck of her friend, hiding her roseate face on her shoulder.

“I'm afraid that you have guessed too much,” she whispered. “I did not mean to confess anything—I have not even confessed to myself; but you took me so by surprise. Please do not say anything about my foolishness—it really is foolishness. You will let my secret remain a secret—oh, you must, my dear Agnes; I tell you truly when I say that it was a secret even to myself, until your question surprised me, so that I could not help—But I have told you nothing—you will assume that I have told you nothing?”

“I will assume anything you please, my dearest child,” said Agnes. “You may trust to me to keep your secret; I will not refer to it, even to yourself. But what about the unhappy Signor Rodani? Is he to return to Italy without seeing you?”

“Oh, I will see him at any time,” cried Clare, making a gesture of indifference which she had acquired in Italy. “I do not mind in the least seeing him face to face. What have I to fear from him? There never was any one so foolish as he is.”

“I hope he will find his way to the bell-pull,” said Agnes; “although I frankly admit that there is much more romance in approaching the object of one's adoration by a serenade than by a bell-pull, still—I suppose he would be shocked if I were to ask him to dine with us.”

“Why should you ask him to dine with us?” said Clare.

“Well, when a distinguished stranger comes to our neighbourhood”—

“He would only fancy if he were asked to dinner that I had not made up my mind. He would think that I was merely coquetting with him—that I was anxious to have him still hanging about; and that might spoil his career in addition to its being very unpleasant to myself. No, let him come: I will put him out of pain at once. I am sure that is the most merciful course to pursue in regard to sentimental lovers who are gifted with supersensitive tenor organs. If poor Ciro does not suffer from his escapade to-night he may be tempted to come again upon a rainy night—and where would he be then?”

“I am sure that you take the most merciful view of the case,” said Agnes. “Alas! that one should be compelled to talk of the dismissal of a lover as one talks about the lethal chamber!”

“Oh, my dear Agnes,” cried Clare, “if you had ever been one of a class of vocalists in Italy you would not talk about a little incident such as this is, as an equivalent to the lethal chamber. I wonder if there are any other employments that have such an effect upon the—the—well, let us say the nerves, as the art of singing. My experience is that a singing class is a forcing house of the affections. I only found out after I had been with the maestro for two years, that it was his fun to throw all of us together so that our wits might be sharpened—that was how he put it. What he meant was that we all sang best when we were in love with one another. Heaven! the scenes that I have witnessed! A tenore robusto used to sharpen his knife on the stone steps so as to be ready to cut the heart out of the basso profundo, who was unfortunate enough to fancy himself in love with the mezzo-soprano.”

“What an interesting experience! But what a shocking old man your master must have been!” laughed Agnes.

“Oh, he cared about nothing but to advance us in our knowledge of the art of expressing the emotions by singing. How could we know how to interpret a passion which we had never felt, he used to ask.”

“So he encouraged the tenor to put a fine edge on his knife, hoping that he would have a better idea of interpreting his revenge when he had cut the heart out of the bosom of his brother artist? Yes, I'm afraid that though an estimable exponent of the art of vocalism, your maestro was lacking in some of the finer principles of the moralist.”

“He took nothing into consideration except his art,” said Clare. “He admitted to me that he liked to see his pupils miserable, for only then could they be depended on to do justice to themselves. He made mischief between young people only that he might study them when blazing with revenge. He has reproduced for me an entire scena founded on a lover's quarrel that he himself brought about.”

“So cold-blooded an old wretch could not be imagined!” cried Agnes. “And yet he could compose so transcendent a theme as the 'Nightingale'! Oh, my dear Clare, one feels that this art is a terrible thing after all.”

“I feel that I have wasted my time with Signor Marini,” said Clare. “What would I not give now to have studied drawing as I studied singing!”

“You are still afraid of attacking those illustrations? I wonder how the maestro would treat your mood in his music?”

“My mood has been dealt with long ago,” cried Clare. “It is in the opera of 'OrfÉo'—the despair of Orpheus when he was longing for the unattainable. Oh, I would make a splendid Orpheus at the present moment.” She almost flung herself down on the piano seat and struck a chord; but she only sang a phrase or two of the marvellous lament “Che farÔ senz' Eurydice?” Her voice was choked. She sprang from her seat and threw herself into the sympathetic arms of her friend. Only for an instant did she remain there. With a long kiss and a rapid “Good-night” she harried from the room.

Agnes was left alone to try to put a coherent interpretation upon her mood. She commenced her task with smiles, thinking of the sentimental young Italian who had not shrunk from the attempt to adapt a serenade to an English November; but before long her smiles had vanished. She sat thinking for a long time; and yet the whole sum of her thoughts found no wider expression than the sigh which came from her as she said:

“Poor child! poor child! May she never know the truth! That is my prayer for her to-night.”