By the steps at the side of the platform stood M. Lambert, the professor of singing. He wore an antiquated opera-hat rakishly tipped on one side, and a yellow rose in his dress-coat. Lambert always made a point of getting into evening dress as soon as the clock chimed the midday hour, and loftily refused to comply with the conventions of what he termed “tin-pot” society. He was a Bohemian to his finger-tips. At a given sign he took off his hat, and, having placed it carefully on the floor, made way for the accompanists--there were three of them--to pass to their respective instruments. Then with great dignity he himself escorted the fair singer on to the platform, and, having favoured the audience with a bow all on his own account, took his seat by the piano in order to turn over the music. “Isn’t she sweet!” exclaimed Lady Marjorie, almost tenderly. “She looks for all the world as if she had just stepped out of a picture.” Her remark was justified. Attired in a prettily made frock of shimmering white silk, with roses at her belt and in her Gainsboro’ hat, Celia stood, a charming representation of feminine beauty. She held herself erect, with gracefully poised head and loosely clasped hands; and, looking straight over the heads of her audience, awaited with composure the close of the instrumental prelude to the French ballad, “La Voix d’un Ange.” It was the story of a forsaken and poverty-stricken mother, who, as she is rocking her weakly babe to sleep one stormy night in her miserable garret, receives an angelic visitation. Being asked to choose whether the babe shall be left to grow up in puny ill-health, or whether the angel shall take it before it knows aught of sorrow, she--although the babe is the one bright spot in her life--chooses the latter alternative, and with patient resignation watches the angel carry it away. It was a dramatic little poem, and Celia told it well. Beginning in a low but well-modulated voice, accompanied only by the low rumbling of the organ, which depicted the approaching storm, she recited with unaffected gesture the opening verses. It was the more difficult for her, being in French, but she had acquired a good accent, and spoke distinctly. When, accompanied by the rippling _arpeggi_ of the piano and harp, and the melting notes produced by the _vox humana_ stop of the organ, her glorious voice burst forth in all its rich fulness--“La Voix d’un Ange”--a thrill of pleasure ran through the audience, and with almost breathless tension, they drank in every note. Higher and with more intensity rose the voice, deeper swelled the organ, more celestial sounded the sweet notes of the harp; the effect was almost entrancing. Then, in a little minor melody of exquisite beauty, the enchanting voice gradually died away; the organ resumed its low rumbling, and a few lines of recitative brought the ballad to a close.