He had never made pretence of other than the commonest lot; yet he conned now an early manhood that made later years utterly common. He followed the enticements of the sea, of the future, the singing-girl never far away, the rest shadows and sadness.... He must do something for her.... Rich natural tones winged forth from the breast of a maid, from shoulders so delicate and white. He would make and keep her great; here was something to do, to work for. It was like finding the ultimate secret. He knew now what had been the matter all the time--nothing to work for.... He would stand between her and all that he knew was rotten--the crowds like this at the _Castle_, the blurred face of the tenor which was both sharp and soft, the tired, tawdry soprano, the stupid animal of a bass. And Bellair, in the magnanimity of his heart’s effusion, included himself among the forces of destruction. He would keep her from the worst of himself, by all means.... She kept her promise, and arose with the tenor at last: “_Oh, that we two were Maying----_” ... New York and all the rest reversed again in his mind. It wasn’t rotten, but lavish to furnish everything for money--so much that men and women were lost in the offerings, and did not know what to choose. Yet it was man’s business to choose. Bellair listened as one across the world; as if he had been gone a year and was thirsting and starving to get back. He was literally longing for New York, with its ramifications all about him--yet the thing he wanted, he could not touch. It was like a sick stomach that infested his whole nature with desire, while everything was at hand but the exact nameless thing desired.... She was like a saint, as she stood there, her mouth so pure, her features so pretty, her voice so brave and tireless--starry to Bellair, a night-voice with depths and heights and dew-fragrance. She was coming to him. “You look just the same. I wouldn’t take you for a New Yorker.... Yes, I am through for to-night.” “I should think you’d love to sing,” he said. The remark was fatuous to her. She didn’t know that a year ago Bellair wouldn’t have dared to say anything so commonplace, but that he had come back to this simplicity from the complication of classics she had never heard of. “Tell me, what do you want most?” he asked earnestly. “I don’t mean the need of clothes. We’ve covered that----” “I want all that a voice will bring.” “Great salaries, noise wherever you go, a continual performance of newspaper articles?” “Yes.” “A score of men praying for favours?” She sipped warily. “Don’t mind my question. It isn’t fair. But tell me, doesn’t it do something to you--to get even a man like me going, for instance,--to make him all different and full of pictures that haven’t anything to do with the case?” “I don’t know what you mean.”