"Passionately. I love it anywhere and everywhere; but I love it best on the stage. That is the glorification of music. It is to honour music as it ought to be honoured. When I listen to an opera, I seem to be lifted quite out of my ordinary self. I feel as if I were so much better and cleverer than I really am. And then I always have a longing to rush on to the stage and join in the choruses, and make one more figure in the splendid processions." "I will send you tickets for Friday, if you will honour me by accepting them," said Gerald. "You are very kind, Mr. Warburton; and to such an offer I cannot find in my heart to say No," answered Miriam, with a "Oh, how I wish I were clever!" she cried next moment; "clever enough to be a great singer on the stage, or to paint a great picture, or to write a book that everybody talked about. Don't you think, Mr. Warburton, that it must be a glorious thing to be clever?" "Not being clever myself, I am hardly in a position to judge," answered Gerald, amused at the girl's earnestness. "But if we commonplace people only knew it, I have no doubt that cleverness has its disadvantages, like every other exceptional quality. Besides, it would not do for us all to be clever; in that case, the world would soon become intolerable. I think a moderate quantity of brains, and a large amount of contentment, are the best stock-in-trade to get through life with." "Hear, hear!" cried Byrne, from his easy-chair. "My sentiments exactly." Miriam pouted a little. "Now you are making fun of me," she said. "No, indeed," returned Gerald, earnestly. "I don't know why the girl should always be raving about wanting to be clever," said Byrne, addressing himself, to Gerald. "She has plenty of good looks, and ought to be content. Five women out of six have neither brains nor good looks--though they will never believe that they haven't got the latter," added the old cynic, under his breath. "Oh, yes, I know that I'm good-looking," said Miriam, naively, but not without a touch of bitterness. "People have told me that ever since I can remember anything. Besides, I can see it for myself in the glass," with an involuntary glance at the Venetian mirror hanging opposite. "Then why are you always dissatisfied--always flying in the face of Providence?" growled Byrne. "What are your good looks given you for, but that some man with plenty of money may fall in love with you, and make you his wife?" "Why not send me to the slave-market at Constantinople?" said Miriam, bitterly. "I dare say that I should fetch a tolerable price there." Gerald thought it time to change the conversation. "Do you come in contact at all with Van Duren?" he said to Byrne. "We have seen more of him to-day than we saw yesterday, and more of him yesterday than previously. He is gradually learning to overcome the native bashfulness of his disposition," added Byrne, with a sneer. "Then he has not shrouded himself altogether from view?" said Gerald.