The new story deals with several episodes in the life of a singer. She is the daughter of a devotee of archaic music and archaic instruments. She has a voice, but her father is so absorbed in the revival of Palestrina, of Vittoria, of old English writers, of the Plain Chant, that he neglects the girl’s vocal possibilities. She plays the viola da gamba and sings at sight. Her mother was a celebrated operatic singer, of chaste life and _coloratura_ tastes. She died before the girl was developed. The dreamy father, the high-strung, ambitious girl, a dreary home at Dulwich, near London, and a rich baronet of musical tastes, crazy for notoriety in London musical life,—and you may imagine the rest. Evelyn goes to Paris with him—and with a certain Lady Duckle as a chaperon. The scene at Marchesi’s—for of course Madame Savelli is Marchesi—is capitally done, and there is a Henry James lightness of touch and humor in the description of Lady Duckle and her dislike of Wagner’s music. “No, my dear Owen,” she cried, “I am not a heretic, for I recognize the greatness of the music, and I could hear it with pleasure if it were confined to the orchestra; but I can find no pleasure in listening to a voice trying to accompany a hundred instruments. I heard Lohengrin last season. I was in Mrs. Ayre’s box—a charming woman—her husband is an American, but he never comes to London. I presented her at the last Drawing Room. She had a supper party afterward, and when she asked me what I’d have to eat, I said, ‘Nothing with wings!... Oh, that Swan!’” Now, this is distinctly witty, and it is a pity that we get only a mere sketch of this chatty body. Without explaining the processes, Evelyn becomes a great singer, a great interpreter of Wagner; and it is precisely this hiatus that deprives me of much pleasure. I dislike these persons in fiction who have become full-fledged artists at the turning of a page. Mr. Moore was treading upon dangerous ground, and he knew it; so he wisely omitted the study years. Evelyn, whose character shows little growth, conquers London, and at last goes to her father to ask his pardon. This episode is the strongest and most original in the book. Indeed, I cannot recollect anything in English fiction like it. She falls at his feet and is Brünnhilde kneeling to Wotan. As she phrases her petition for pardon she acts, consciously or unconsciously, the third act of Die Walküre: “War es so schmählich?” she mentally implores, and the simple instrument-maker is vanquished. It is very subtle, and the dual nature of the lyric artist is clearly indicated.