His wife was a very different kind of person. The daughter of a chemist at Worcester, and possessed of a good voice, the musical festivals, and the love of Church dignitaries for the _ars musica_, had indicated music as her profession. As a little girl, her talents in this respect had made her a favourite in the cathedral town, and she could with veracity boast acquaintance with bishops, deans, and canons, whose names sounded oddly enough when coming from her lips. Nevertheless these worthy and guileless men had contributed to her education, proudly looking forward to the time when her rich contralto should resound through their own cathedral, and they should share in the plaudits showered on their pupil and _protégée_. So they sent her to study in London,—and she did study in London. She came out in London; sang in an oratorio, and created a sensation. But Kate Robins was a peculiar person. She was the daughter of a chemist, and in her physical composition there was much oxygen of a certain quality—not enough, however, to feed the vestal flame. Moreover, she was very pretty, with an arch smile. She sang little songs with ineffable grace. So no wonder she studied the doctrine of affinities. A cathedral town presented but few attractions. Deans were atoms of a nature not sufficiently volatile. She found the obstacles in the way of Platonism so numerous as to be absolutely insurmountable. So she assumed the toga affected by her equivalents in Babylon. She drove in little carriages, and radiated in fine linen. She accepted engagements at theatres, took parts where a good leg, an arch smile, and a rich voice were everything requisite; earned a good livelihood from her art, and a considerable amount of pocket-money from her artlessness.