"Are you master of all three methods?" she asked, stopping her fanning for a moment to look at him. "Indeed, no," he answered. "Mine is a primitive and unstudied manner. It needs cultivating, I think." His fingers touched hers for a moment under the ledge of the box. "That sounds so uncouth," she murmured. "I detest amateurs." "I will buy books and a lay figure," he declared, "to practise upon. Or shall I ask Colonel Anson for a few hints?" "For Heaven's sake no," she declared. "I would rather put up with your own efforts, however clumsy. Love-making at first hand is dull enough. At second hand it would be unendurable." He leaned towards her. "Is that a challenge?" She shrugged her shoulders, all ablaze with jewels. "Why not? It might amuse me." Somewhat irrelevantly he glanced at the next few boxes where the rest of Mrs. Montressor's guests were. "Is your husband here to-night?" he asked. "My husband!" she laughed a little derisively. "No, he wouldn't come here of all places--just now. He dined, and then pleaded a political engagement. I was supposed to do the same, but I didn't." "You know," he said with some hesitation, "that your sister is singing." She nodded. "Of course. I want to hear how she does it." "She does it magnificently," he declared. "I think--we all think that she is wonderful." She looked at him with curious eyes. "I remember," she said, "that the first night I saw you, you spoke of my sister as your friend. Have you seen much of her lately?" "Nothing at all," he answered. The small grey feathers of her exquisitely shaped fan waved gently backwards and forwards. She was watching him intently. "Do you know," she said, "that every one is remarking how ill you look. I too can see it. What has been the matter?" "Toothache," he answered laconically. She looked away. "You might at least," she murmured, "have invented a more romantic reason." "Oh, I might," he answered, "have gone further still. I might have told you the truth." "Has my sister been unkind to you?" "The family," he declared, "has not treated me with consideration." She looked at him doubtfully. "You promised faithfully to be there," he said slowly. "I loathe afternoon concerts, and----" She was really like her sister he thought, impressed for a moment by the soft brilliancy of her smile. Her fingers rested upon his. "You were really at Moulton House," she exclaimed penitently. "I am so sorry. I had a perfect shoal of callers. People who would not go. I only arrived when everybody was coming away." A little murmur of expectation, an audible silence announced the coming of "Alcide." Then a burst of applause. She was standing there, smiling at the audience as at her friends. From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. Then she sang.