ert-room combined; there was a piano there, and
a young lady practising, with her mother knitting by her side; and
two or three other people, friends of theirs, lounging about and
looking at the papers.

The mamma was a very handsome person of aristocratic appearance. The
pretty daughter was practicing the soprano part in a duet by
Campana, which Barty knew well; it was "Una sera d' amore." The
tenor had apparently not kept his appointment, and madame expressed
some irritation at this; first to a friend, in French, but with a
slight English accent--then in English to her daughter; and Barty
grew interested.

After a little while, catching the mamma's eye (which was not
difficult, as she very frankly and persistently gazed at him, and
with a singularly tender and wistful expression of face), he got up
and asked in English if he could be of any use--seeing that he knew
the music well and had often sung it. The lady was delighted, and
Barty and mademoiselle sang the duet in capital style to the mamma's
accompaniment: "guarda che Bianca luna," etc.

"What a lovely voice you've got! May I ask your name?" says the
mamma.

"Josselin."

"English, of course?"

"Upon my word I hardly know whether I'm English or French!" said
Barty, and he and the lady fell into conversation.

It turned out that she was Irish, and married to a Belgian soldier,
le General Comte de Cleves (who was a tremendous swell, it
seems--but just then in Brussels).

Barty told Madame de Cleves the story of his eye--he was always very
communicative about his eye; and she suddenly buried her face in her
hands and wept; and mademoiselle told him in a whisper that her
eldest brother had gone blind and died three or four years ago, and
that he was extraordinarily like Barty both in face and figure.

Presently another son of Madame de Cleves came in--an officer of
dragoons in undress uniform, a splendid youth. He was the missing
tenor, and made his excuses for being late, and sang very well
indeed.

And Barty became the intimate friend of these good people, who made
Blankenberghe a different place to him--and conceived for him a
violent liking, and introduced him to all their smart Belgian
friends; they were quite a set--bathing together, making music and
dancing, taking excursions, and so forth. And before a fortnight was
over Barty had become the most popular young man in the town, the
gayest of the gay, the young guardsman once more, throwing dull