read-and-butter, as you English people term
it. Why not keep on good terms with him until your training, at any
rate, is complete?"

Cynthia raised her dark eyes, with a new light in them.

"I am to be friendly with him as long as I need his help? Is that it,
Madame? I do not quite agree with you; and I think the time has come
when I must be independent now."

"Independent! What can you do?" said Madame, throwing up her hands. "A
baby like you--with that face and that voice! You want very careful
guarding, my dear, or you will spoil your career. You must not think of
independence for the next ten years."

Cynthia meditated a little. She did not want to tell Madame della
Scala, who was a confirmed chatterer, that she thought of going to
America; and yet, knowing that her departure would probably be sudden
and secret, she did not want to omit the opportunity of saying a few
necessary words.

"If I took any steps of which you did not approve, dear Madame, I hope
that you would forgive me and believe that I was truly grateful to you
for all your kindness to me."

"What does that mean?" said Madame shrewdly. "Are you going to be
married, _cara mia_? Is an elopement in store for us? _Dio mio_, there
will be a fine fuss about it in the newspapers if you do anything
extraordinary! You are becoming the fashion, my dear, as they say in
England; and, when you are the fashion, your success is assured."

"I am not going to do anything extraordinary," said Cynthia, forcing a
smile, "and I do not mean to elope with anybody, dear Madame; I only
wanted to thank you for all that you have done for me. And now I must
practise for the evening. Perhaps music will do my headache good."

But, even if music benefited her head, it did not raise her spirits.
Each time that the postman's knock vibrated through the house, her heart
beat so violently that she was obliged to pause in her singing until she
had ascertained that no letter had come for her. No letter--no message
from either Hubert or her father--what did this silence mean?

The day wore on drearily. She would not go out, much to Madame's
vexation; she practised, she tried to read, she looked at her
dresses--she tried all the usual feminine arts for passing time, going
so far even as to take up some needlework, which she generally detested;
but, in spite of all, the day was cruelly long and blank. She dined
early in the afternoon, as she was going to sing that evening; and it
w