Tedcastle starts to his feet, half mad with agitation, his face ashen white. There is no knowing what he might not have done in this moment of excitement had not his foreign neighbor, laying hands upon him, gently forced him back again into his seat. "My friend, consider _her_," he whispers, in a firm but soft voice. Then, after a moment's pause, "Come with me," he says, and, leading the way, beckons to Luttrell, who rises mechanically and follows him. Into a small private apartment that opens off the hall the Italian takes him, and, pushing toward him a chair, sinks into another himself. "She is the woman you love?" he asks, presently, in such a kindly tone as carries away all suspicion of impertinence. "Yes," answers Luttrell, simply. "Well, and I love her too,--as a pupil,--a beloved pupil," says the elder man, with a smile, removing his spectacles. "My name is Marigny." Tedcastle bows involuntarily to the great teacher and master of music. "How often she has spoken of you!" he says warmly, feeling already a friendship for this gentle preceptor. "Yes, yes; mine was the happiness to give to the world this glorious voice," he says, enthusiastically. "And what a gift it is! Rare,--wonderful. But you, sir,--you are engaged to her?" "We were--we are engaged," says Luttrell, his eyes dark with emotion. "But it is months since we have met. I came to London to seek her; but did not dream that here--here---- Misfortune has separated us; but if I lived for a hundred years I should never cease--to----" He stops, and, getting up abruptly, paces the room in silent impatience. "You have spoiled her song," says the Italian, regretfully. "And she was in such voice to-night! Hark!" Raising his hand as the clapping and applause still reach him through the door. "Hark! how they appreciate even her failures!" "Can I see her?" "I doubt it. She is so prudent. She will speak to no one. And then madame her sister is always with her. I trust you, sir,--your face is not to be disbelieved; but I cannot give you her address. I have sworn to her not to reveal it to any one, and I must not release myself from my word without her consent." "The fates are against me," says Luttrell, drearily. Then he bids good-night to the Signor, and, going out into the night, paces up and down in a fever of longing and disappointment. At length the concert is over, and every one is departing. Tedcastle, making his way to the private entrance, watches anxiously, though with little hope for what may come. But others are watching also to catch a glimpse of the admired singer, and the crowd round the door is immense.