His
acquaintance with Ortensia would always be a beautiful recollection in
his life, he thought, and one in which there could be no element of
remorse or bitterness. He was not a libertine. Few great artists have
ever been that; for in every great painter, or sculptor, or musician
there is a poet, and true poetry is the refutation of vulgar
materialism. In all the nobler arts the second-rate men have invariably
been the sensualists; but the masters, even in their love affairs, have
always hankered after an ideal, and have sometimes found it.

When the Senator ushered in Stradella one morning and quietly announced
that the lesson was to be the last, Ortensia felt faint, and turned her
back quite to the open window, against the light, so that the two men
could not see how she changed colour. The nurse's hard grey eyes
scrutinised Pignaver's face for an instant, and then turned to
Stradella; he was paler than usual, but grave and collected, for the
Senator had already informed him that his services would be no longer
needed after that day.

Everything was to take place as usual. As usual, Ortensia was to sing
one of her uncle's ninety-seven compositions to him while Stradella
accompanied her; as usual, Pignaver would then go away; lastly, at the
customary time, Pina would go out for ten minutes and reappear with
water and sherbet.

Ortensia was shaking with emotion when the ordeal began, and for a
moment she felt that it was hopeless to try to sing. Some sharp
discordant sound would surely break from her lips, and she would faint
outright in her misery.

She was on the very point of saying that she felt a sudden hoarseness,
or was taken ill, when her pride awoke in a flash with a strength that
amazed her, the more because she had never dreamed she had any of that
sort. Stradella should not guess that she was hurt; she would rather die
than let him know that her heart was breaking; more than that, she would
break his, if there was time, and if she could!

She stood up by her chair and sang far better than she had ever sung
before in Pignaver's hearing; she threw life and fire and passion into
his mild composition, and she remembered every effective little trick
Stradella had taught her for improving the dull melody and for
emphasising the commonplace verses it was meant to adorn.

The Senator was surprised and delighted, and Stradella softly clapped
his hands. She hated him for applauding her, yet she was pleased wi