A mixed quartette presently broke into song behind him. Bellair’s thoughts were far from song. He was not expectant of music that would satisfy. Still something tugged him--again and again--until he really listened, but without turning. It was the voice of the contralto that was making an impression deep where his need was. There seemed an endless purple background to it, like a night of stars and south wind; the soft, deep volume rolled forth _for him_, and found itself expressed without amazement or travail. He turned now. The one voice was from the throat of a girl, just a girl, and though it was a gusty November, she was still wearing her summer hat. The face was merely pretty, but the voice was drama; flame of poppies in the presence of a fabulous orchid. Bellair’s heart may have been particularly sensitive to impression that night. The big brilliant den known as _Brandt’s_ did not seem to have been cast into any enchantment; and yet it was likely that Bellair knew as much about music natively and by acquisition as any one present. In fact, he had reached the state of appreciation which dares to enjoy that which appeals and to say so, having endured for several winters a zeal which rushed him from one to another musical event, intolerant of all save classic symphonies. It wasn’t the music that held him now--a high flowery operatic matter not particularly interesting nor well-done--but the contralto was just a little girl, and the round girlish breast which held nothing miraculous for the many, was sending forth tones that quivered through Bellair, spine and thigh, and thrilling his mind with a profound passion to do something for the singer--an intrinsic and clean emotion, but one which made him ashamed. For an instant, he felt himself setting out on the great adventure of his life, the faintest aroma of its romance touching his senses; something akin to his dreams in the prison of Lot & Company, and which he had not sensed at all since his departure, until this instant. Quickly it passed; yet he had the sense that this great romance had to do with the little singer. At once he wanted to take her from the other three; dreamed of working for her, so that she might have the chance she craved. Of course, she wanted something terribly; passionate want always went with such a voice. He saw her future alone. Some vampire of a manager would hear her. She would tie up--the little summer hat told him that. She would tie up, and New York would take her bloom before the flower matured--would take more than her little song. Here she was in _Brandt’s_ already, and singing as if for the angels.