worst phase of it. She
was sure that if she closed her eyes she should see Madame Bonanni
vividly before her, and hear her talking to Logotheti, and smell the
heavy air of the big room. She felt that she could not call Lushington
a prig.

'I think I know what you mean,' she answered. 'But surely, an artist
can lead her own life, especially if she is successful.'

'No,' Lushington answered, 'she cannot. That's just it.'

'How do you know?' Margaret asked, incredulously.

'I do know,' he said with emphasis. 'I assure you that I know. I have
seen a great deal of operatic people. A few, and they are not generally
the great ones, try to lead their own lives, as you put it, but they
either don't succeed at all or else they make themselves so
disagreeable to their fellow artists that life becomes a burden.'

'If they don't succeed, it's because they have no strength of
character,' Margaret answered, 'and if they make themselves
disagreeable, it's because they have no tact!'

'That settles it!' Lushington laughed drily. 'I had better not say
anything more.'

'I did not mean to cut you short. I beg your pardon. Please go on,
please!'

She turned to him as she said the last words, and there was in the word
'please' that one tone of hers which he could never resist. It is said
that even lifeless things, like bridges and towers, are subject by
nature to the vibration of a sympathetic note, and that the greatest
buildings in the world would tremble, and shake, and rock and fall in
ruins if that single musical sound were steadily produced near to them.
We men cannot pretend to be harder of hearing and feeling than stocks
and stones. The woman who loves, whether she herself knows it or not,
has her call, that we answer as the wood-bird answers his mate, her
sympathetic word and note at which we vibrate to our heart's core.

When Margaret said 'please' in a certain way, Lushington's free will
seemed to retire from him suddenly, to contemplate his weakness from a
little distance. When she said 'please go on,' he went on, and not only
said what he had meant to say but a great deal more, too.

'It would bore you to know all about my existence,' he began, 'but as a
critic and otherwise I happen to have been often in contact with
theatrical people, especially opera-singers. I have at least
one--er--one very dear friend amongst them.

'A man?' suggested Margaret.

'No. A woman--of a certain age. As I see her very often, I natu