admired the more depressed he
became.

"She may be on the threshold of a modest 'career,' of a sort, after
all," he thought, "and she will never give it up for me. Would she be
willing to combine me with the career, and how would it work? I
shouldn't be churl enough to mind her singing now and then, but it
seems to me I couldn't stand 'tours.' Besides, hers is such a
childlike, winsome, fragrant little gift it ought not to be exploited
like a great, booming talent!"

The audience went wild over Donald Tovey's songs. He played, and Tommy
sang them from memory, and it seemed as if they had been written then
and there, struck off at white heat; as if the composer happened to be
at the piano, and the singer chanced with his help to be interpreting
those particular verses for that particular moment.

His setting of "Jock o'Hazeldean" proved irresistible:

"They sought her baith by bower an ha';
The ladie was not seen."

And then with a swirl and a torrent of sound, a clangor of sword and a
clatter of hoofs:

"She's o'er the Border and awa'
Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean."

Appleton didn't see any valid reason why Tovey should kiss Tommy's
hand in responding to the third recall, but supposed it must be a
composer's privilege, and wished that he were one.

Then the crowd made its way into the brilliant Torquay sunshine, and
Appleton lingered in the streets until the time came for the tea-party
arranged for the artists at the hotel.

It was a gay little gathering, assisted by a charming lady of the
town, who always knew the celebrated people who flock there in all
seasons. Spalding and Tovey were the lions, but Miss Thomasina Tucker
did not lack for compliments. Her cheeks glowed and her eyes sparkled
under the white tulle brim of her hat. Her neck looked deliciously
white and young, rising from its transparent chiffons, and her bunch
of mignonette gave a note of delicate distinction. The long-haired
gentleman was present, and turned out to be a local poet. He told Miss
Tucker that she ought never to wear or to carry another flower. "Not,
at all events, till you pass thirty!" he said. "You belong
together--you, your songs, and the mignonette!"--at which she flung a
shy upward glance at Appleton, saying: "It is this American friend who
has really established the connection, though I have always worn green
and white and always loved the flower."