r voice. It is magnificent--_epatant_! Open your mouth,
little singing-bird, once more. This time we will haf some scales."

Bewildered and excited, Diana sang again, Baroni testing the full compass
of her voice until quite suddenly he shut down the lid of the piano.

"It is enough," he said solemnly, and then, turning to Signora Evanci,
began talking to her in an excited jumble of English and Italian. Diana
caught broken phrases here and there.

"Of a quality superb! . . . And a beeg compass which will grow beeger
yet. . . . The contralto of the century, Giulia."

And Signora Evanci smiled and nodded agreement, patting Diana's hand, and
reminded Baroni that it was time for his afternoon cup of consomme. She
was a comfortable feather-bed of a woman, whose mission in life it seemed
to be to fend off from her brother all sharp corners, and to see that he
took his food at the proper intervals and changed into the thick
underclothing necessitated by the horrible English climate.

"But it will want much training, your voice," continued Baroni, turning
once more to Diana. "It is so beeg that it is all over the place--it
sounds like a clap of thunder that has lost his way in a back garden."
And he smiled indulgently. "To bee-gin with, you will put away all your
songs--every one. There will be nothing but exercises for months yet.
And you will come for your first lesson on Thursday. Mondays and
Thursdays I will teach you, but you must come other days, also, and
listen at my lessons. There is much--very much--learned by listening, if
one listens with the brain as well as with the ear. Now, little
singing-bird, good-bye. I will go with you myself to the door."

The whole thing seemed too impossibly good to be true. Diana felt as if
she were in the middle of a beautiful dream from which she might at any
moment waken to the disappointing reality of things. Hardly able to
believe the evidence of her senses, she found herself once again in the
narrow hall, shepherded by the maestro's portly form. As he held the
door open for her to pass out into the street, some one ran quickly up
the steps, pausing on the topmost.

"Ha, Olga!" exclaimed Baroni, beaming. "You haf returned just too late
to hear Mees Quentin. But you will play for her--many times yet." Then,
turning to Diana, he added by way of introduction: "This is my
accompanist, Mees Lermontof."

Diana received the impression of a thin, satirical face, it