“Have I done anything you don’t like?” “No, but it maddens me to see anybody try to impose upon you. Don’t accept any more courtesies from that class; I’ll bring you all the books that you want to read.” “You are very good; I’ll try to remember that,” she promised. He hoped she would. His care of her was like the fond tending of a flower that has been unwittingly left in a fetid atmosphere. CHAPTER XI. MRS. LOW’S receptions were more cordial and less formal than the usual social affairs. Glenn Andrews and Esther arrived late. The richest Oriental splendor surrounded them. There were a thousand rare souvenirs of foreign lands to please the eye. The colors in the tapestries and rugs were of that exquisitely tender hue that comes only from age. The largest rug, covered with inscriptions from Saadi, the Persian poet, seemed to have caught more of the charm and sentiment of the Orient. Glenn was calling Esther’s attention to it while they waited for a chance to speak to the hostess. Red lights glowed warmly through the iron-fretted lanterns swinging low. A hidden harpist was playing soft, sweeping strains of sound. Mrs. Low caught a glimpse of the late arrivals. She met them with hands outstretched, a radiant smile of welcome upon her face. “Ah, Glenn, Miss Powel; charmed, I assure you. Mr. Kent has been waiting to have this young lady accompany him,” she said, as that gentleman joined them. “You came just in time, Miss Powel. Our friend, Mr. Andrews, has told me that you have been good enough to take the trouble to learn the ‘Serenade’ that is to be in our new opera. Mrs. Low has out-talked me and made me feel that my friends should be first to pass judgment before the critics get a chance.” Esther hesitated a moment, smiling. “That will be charming,” Glenn whispered to her, inclining his head. He smiled slightly as his eyes met hers. His approval was what she had waited for--that was plain. The next moment she had graciously indicated her willingness by taking up her violin that Mrs. Low had sent for before she came. The sight of Stephen Kent at the piano and Esther beside him made the rooms silent in an instant and stilled the unseen harpist. Glenn Andrews kept close watch upon the crowd as it stood in mute attention. It was to note how she was received. He had forgotten his share in the honors. Stephen Kent sang the passionately poetic words; the exquisite commingling of the voice and violin suddenly awoke in the poet the thought of what sincerity of the soul there was in those words. In the heat of the enthusiasm that followed the encore some one grasped Glenn Andrews’ hands. “And those lines are perfectly exquisite. I am wild to hear all of your libretto.” “Oh, indeed!” he answered, staring, and that moment it was the effort of his life to know what she meant.