y's or Covent
Garden--with a little more training perhaps," said Hubert, trying to be
cautious, but failing to hide the satisfaction which shone out of his
eyes as he approached the piano. "Why have you never sung to any
manager? At least you may have done so, but I never heard a word of it;
and a voice like yours would be talked about; you know."

"I suppose it was old Lalli's fault," said Cynthia carelessly. "He
always impressed upon me that I could not sing a bit, and that I must
wait for years and years before I dare open my mouth in public."

"And who is old Lalli?" asked Hubert, gathering up her music and
beginning to turn it over.

Cynthia crossed her white hands and looked down, a shadow flitting
across her mobile face.

"He is dead," she said softly. "He was a very kind old friend. He lodged
in the house where I am lodging now. As long as he lived I always had
somebody to advise me--somebody to depend on."

Her voice faltered a little. Some moisture was visible on the long dark
eyelashes as they hung over the fresh young cheeks. Hubert thought again
that he had never seen a woman half so beautiful. The touch of emotion
softened her loveliness--made it more human, more appealing. His tone
was less light, but more simply friendly, when he addressed her again.

"Was he a musician?"

"He was a violinist in the Frivolity orchestra. He had been a singer
once, I believe; at any rate, he knew a great deal about singing, and he
used to give me lessons. He used to tear his hair, and frown and stamp a
great deal," said Cynthia, smiling tenderly; "but he was kind, and I
loved him very much."

"You met with him at the boarding-house where you live, I suppose?" said
Hubert carelessly.

Cynthia gave him a sudden glance. The color came into her face.

"No," she said slowly; "he took me there." She raised her right hand and
struck a few soft notes with it before she resumed her speech. "You
would like to know how it was perhaps?" She made long pauses between her
sentences, as if she were considering what to say and what to leave
unsaid. "I came to London about four years ago, in great trouble. I had
lost all my friends--not because I had done anything wrong, because
of--other things. I wanted to get something to do in a shop or as a
servant-girl--I did not care what. I tried all day, but nobody would
give me work. I slept in the Park at night. Next day I began to search
all over again, and again it was of no use. I