"That ugly Italian, as you call him, has heard some of the best prima donnas in Europe. He is poor, he is seedy--for his voice left him just as he was on the eve of success--but he was the only person in the room who could tell me that I sang as well as the greatest of them." Her voice quivered as she spoke. "You are mistaken indeed, Miss Blanche," I said. "Any fellow there would have paid you the same compliment if you had given him a chance; but you were so confoundedly wrapped up in that Italian chap that you would not look at the rest of us." "I don't care for the compliment," she said, cooling down directly: "I care for the truth. They don't know if I sing well or not." "Then you only sing to be admired, Miss Furnaval?" "I don't sing at all," she said, coloring. "But you _should_ sing." "Why?" she asked. "To please--to give pleasure to others." "I don't care to please any one but myself." "But that is not right, you know. Now, I try to please everybody." "Do you always succeed, Mr. Highrank?" "Yes, always; and though it's tiresome at times, I bear it. Last autumn you never saw anything to compare to it--in the country, you know. But it's my vocation, and I try to live up to it. People do wrong who have talents and do not use them. That is why I blame you, Miss Blanche." "It is not worth the trouble. I have withdrawn my hand from market, and intend to please myself the remainder of my life." "From what market? What do you mean?" "I mean the matrimonial market, of course." "Why won't you marry? if I may ask." "It is too much trouble. I won't be a slave to the caprices of the world so that I may be called amiable. Now, if I don't wish to appear in the parlor, I stay in my room; if I don't wish to receive callers, I refuse; if I don't wish to attend a party, I stay at home. I need not visit to keep myself 'before, the public.' I can be as eccentric as I like. When I disagree with a gentleman, I can contradict him; if I do not feel like smiling, I frown; and when I want to walk alone, I go. I can please myself from morning till night, and I enjoy it." "You like clever fellows, don't you?" I asked, remembering the conversation I had just overheard. "Yes," she answered, and then speaking decidedly, added, "and I like 'poor devils,' as you call them: they are not so dreadfully conceited as _some_ men are." "I tell you what," I said--just for the purpose of getting her opinion of myself, you know--"I am a clever fellow: I hope you like me." She glanced round--I suppose to see if I was in earnest--then turning away said, "Y-e-s, pretty well."