“Libretto?” he said to himself. “Oh, when I heard such playing I forgot I had written anything,” he declared, with a laugh. He was extremely shocked to discover that he had composed the words. “Aren’t you a little crazy?” the expression on her face asked, as Mrs. Low came up and led him away. She had become devotedly attached to him during their life in Paris. “If that is a fair sample of your opera, it will be most enchanting.” The hearty words carried with them something of the sincere interest she felt. “You are very kind, Mrs. Low. Your approval is a great compliment to our poor efforts. You, of course, know its success means a better future to both of us; the financial part of it being of no slight importance.” “It’s going to succeed; it has the merit and the backing. Give yourself no anxiety. Kent certainly has done his part well. It is his master effort.” Mrs. Low sank deep in the gorgeous cushions and looked across to where Esther stood besieged. She was so unspoiled and direct of manner. There was something picturesquely Southern in her simple gown. “Tell me something more about her. Is she in earnest or does she play with her art for the same reason that a kitten plays with her ball?” “Oh, she is in dead earnest, Mrs. Low. She is overworking in her enthusiasm.” Glenn caught Esther’s eye as he spoke. There was a touch of pathos in the smile. “That will never do. You might persuade her to take it more slowly.” She stopped a moment, looking up with guarded eyes. Glenn Andrews was not big print to her. The depths of his nature had to be read between the lines. In her heart she wondered if he would resent the questioning. He studied her magnificent repose, that matched his. “She has genius. I have become quite interested in her already,” said Mrs. Low. A shade of relief passed over Glenn’s features as he heard this. “I have known her for years. The poor child has neither parents nor friends to restrain or aid her. She has not reached that point in her art where she can earn a dollar. I have been thinking many ways of trying to help her. It must be some way by which she feels that she is earning it. I know her so well.” “It is not often that I ask such close questions, but this time it is because of my interest. What are you to her?” Her tone did not imply idle curiosity. He clasped his hands thoughtfully. “Honestly, I don’t know how to answer you. I am her friend, brother, critic--I suppose. If I had to select one word to express my relation to her, I should say, chaperone.” “Chaperone,” she repeated, with charming grace. “That is a virgin field for a man’s possibilities, but since I think of it, I had a great deal rather trust some men I know to look after a child of mine than most women.”