Frithiof’s clouded face instantly cleared; all the old brightness returned for a moment to his frank blue eyes, and forgetful of the fact that he was not in Norway, and that Donati was the idolized public singer, he grasped the hand of the Italian with that fervent, spontaneous gratitude which is so much more eloquent than words. “Thank you,” he said simply. “Well, now, is it possible for an outsider to help in unraveling the mystery?” said Donati. “For when a man like you is accused in this way I take it for granted there must be a mystery.” “No one can possibly explain it,” said Frithiof, the troubled look returning to his face. “I can’t tell in the least how the thing happened, but appearances were altogether against me. It is the most extraordinary affair, but God knows I had no hand in it.” “I want to hear all about it,” said Donati with that eagerness of manner and warmth of interest which made him so devotedly loved by thousands. “I am leaving England to-morrow; can’t you come back and have supper with me now, and let me hear this just as it all happened?” Even if he had wished to refuse, Frithiof could hardly have done so; and, as it was, he was so miserable that he would have caught at much less hearty sympathy. They walked along the crowded pavement toward Sackville Street, and had almost reached the carriage when a conversation immediately behind them became distinctly audible. “They make such a fuss over this Donati,” said the speaker. “But I happen to know that he’s a most disreputable character. I was hearing all about him the other day from some one who used to know him intimately. They say, you know, that—” Here the conversation died away in the distance, and what that curse of modern society—the almighty “They”—said as to Donati’s private affairs remained unknown to him. Frithiof glanced at the singer’s face. Apparently he had not yet reached those sublime heights where insults cease from troubling and slanders fail to sting. He was still young, and naturally had the disadvantages as well as the immense gains of a sensitive artistic temperament. A gleam of fierce anger swept over his face, and was quickly succeeded by a pained look that made Frithiof’s heart hot within him; in silence the Italian opened the door of the carriage, signed to Frithiof to get in, and they drove off together. “No matter,” said Donati in a minute, speaking reflectively, and as if he were alone. “I do not sing for a gossiping public. I sing for Christ.” “But that they should dare to say such a thing as that!” exclaimed Frithiof, growing more and more indignant as his companion’s serenity returned.