sociated the idea of virtuous uprightness with all American and
English business men. Next to a clergyman, she unconsciously looked
upon an American banker as the most strictly moral type of man; and
though her hair was grey and she knew a vast deal about this wicked
world, she still felt a painful little shock when her favourite
newspaper informed her that a banker or a clergyman had turned aside
out of the paths of righteousness, as they occasionally do, just like
human beings. She felt a similar disagreeable thrill when she thought
of Margaret singing in public to earn a living. Prejudices are moral
corns; anything that touches one makes it ache more or less, but the
pain is always of the same kind. You cannot get a pleasurable sensation
out of a corn.

Yet Margaret was working at her music, with persevering regularity,
quite convinced that she must soon support herself unhelped and quite
sure that her voice was her only means to that end. Singing was her
only accomplishment, and she therefore supposed that the gift, such as
it was, must be her only talent.

She was modest about it, for the very reason that she believed it was
what she did best, and she was patient because she knew that she must
do it well before she could hope to live by it. Most successful singers
had appeared in public before reaching her age, yet she was only two
and twenty, and a year or two could make no great difference.
Nevertheless, she was more anxious than she would have admitted, and
she had persuaded her teacher to let her sing to Madame Bonanni, the
celebrated lyric soprano, whose opinion would be worth having, and
perhaps final. The great singer had the reputation of being very
good-natured in such cases and was on friendly terms with Margaret's
teacher, the latter being a retired prima donna. Margaret felt sure of
a fair hearing, therefore, and it was for this trial that she was going
to the city on the following morning.

Neither she nor Lushington spoke for a long time after she had given
him the information. She took up her book again, but she read without
paying any attention to the words, for the recollection of what was
coming had brought back all her anxiety about her future life. It would
be a dreadful thing if Madame Bonanni should tell her frankly that she
had no real talent and had better give it up. The great artist would
say what she thought, without wasting time or sympathy; that was why
Margaret was going to her. Wom