to be angry; every night I have a reception that you
would like to hear, Leo, for _you_ have no jealousy; and my heart
says _those_ people are not under bad influence; they are honest in
saying they are pleased; to _them_ I sing not out of tune, and am
not so very stupid. If I lie awake at night, and cry much, it is
then I say to myself that I am stupid; and the next morning I
laugh, when Mrs. Grey says some kind thing to me.

"Will you be surprised, most excellent Signor, if you have a visit
from Miss Burgoyne? Yes, it is possible. The doctor says she has
strained her voice by too long work--but it was a little _reedy_ of
its own nature, do you not think, Leo?--and says she must have
entire rest, and that she must go to the Isle of White; but she
said every one was going to Scotland, and why not she, and her two
friends, her travelling companions. Then she comes to me and ask
your address. I answer--Why to me? There is Mr. Lehmann; and at the
stage-door they will know his address, for letters to go. So, you
see, you will not be alone in the high-lands, when you have such a
_charming visitor_ with you, and she will talk to you, not from
behind a fan, as on the stage, but all the day, and you will have
great comfort and satisfaction. Yes, I see her arrive at the
castle. She rings at the gate; your noble friends come out, and ask
who she is; they discover, and drive away such a person as a poor
cantatrice. But you hear, you come flying out, you rescue her from
scorn--ah, it is pitiable, they all weep, they say to you that you
are honorable and just, that they did wrong to despise your
charming friend. Perhaps they ask her to dine; and she sings to
them after; and Leo says to himself, Poor thing; no; her voice is
not so reedy. The _denouement_?--but I am not come to it yet; I
have not arranged what will arrive then.

"What is the time of your return, Leo? And you know what will be
then? You will find on the stage another Grace Mainwaring, who will
sing always out of tune, and be so stupid that you will have fury
and will complain to the Manager. Ah, there is now no one to speak
with you from behind a fan--only a dull heavy stupid. Misera me!
What shall I do? All the poetry departed from Harry Thornhill's
singing--there is no more fascination for him--