‘Respectability!’ cried Geoffrey, flaming with indignation. ‘I would no more doubt her honour than I would question that of my dead mother. If you had heard her sing “Voi che sapéte,” the clear thrilling tones, now swelling into a flood of melody, now sinking to the tenderest whisper! Could such tones as those come from an impure heart? No, Lucius. I need no certificate of character to tell me that Jane Bertram is true.’ Lucius smiled—the slow smile of worldly wisdom—and then breathed a faint regretful sigh for his friend’s delusion. ‘My dear Geoff,’ he said, ‘I daresay the conclusion you arrive at is natural to the unsophisticated mind. A great orator addresses us like a demigod; ergo, he must be by nature godlike. Yet his life may be no better than Thurlow’s or Wilkes’s. A woman is divinely beautiful; and we argue that her soul, too, must be divine. The history of the musical stage tells us that in days gone by there were women who sang like angels, yet were by no means perfect as women. For God’s sake, dear old friend, beware of music. Of all man’s ensnarers the siren with lyre and voice is the most dangerous. Of all woman’s tempters he who breathes his earthly desires in heavenly-sounding melody is the most fatal. In my own family there has been a wretched example of this nature. I speak with all the bitterness that comes from bitter experience.’ ‘That may be so,’ returned the other, unconvinced; ‘but there are instincts which cannot lie. My belief in Jane Bertram is fixed as the sun in heaven.’ ‘Did you contrive to obtain an introduction?’ ‘No. I found that impossible. She knows no one, goes nowhere, except for her professional engagements. Even the people who engage her—music publishers, and what not—know nothing about her; except that she sings better than five out of six sopranos of established reputation, and that she has struggled into her present modest position out of obscurity and hard work. She was only a teacher of music until very lately. She would do wonders if she went on the stage, my informant told me; and such a course was suggested to her; but she peremptorily declined to entertain the idea. She earns, in the season, about five pounds a week. What a pittance for a goddess!’ ‘And who was Mr. Bertram?’ ‘I was not curious upon that subject; enough for me to know that he is in his grave. But had I been ever so inquisitive my curiosity must have gone unsatisfied. The people who know so little about her know still less about her late husband. He has been dead some years. That is all they could tell me.’ ‘And you positively go down to Liverpool to hear her sing!’ ‘As I would go back to the shores of the Red River for the same purpose. Ay, live again on mouldy pemmican, and hear again the howling of the wolves at sunset.’ ‘And is this kind of thing to go on indefinitely?’