The dining-room of the Royal Severn Hotel did not succeed any better than most provincial hotels in suggesting an atmosphere of nocturnal gaiety. The two waiters looked as if they had been dragged out of bed by the hair of their heads in order to attend to the wants of the unreasonable beings who required to be fed at this unnatural hour. Most of the tables suggested that they would welcome more cheerfully the eggs and bacon of the morning breakfast than the lobster mayonnaise of supper. The very flowers in attendance appeared heavy with sleep and resentful at not being allowed a night’s repose with the other table decorations that were piled upon one of the sideboards like wreaths upon a coffin. Half the room was in twilight, so that the portion of it that was lighted was so uncomfortably bright as to seem garish. At one end two members of the chorus were trying to make a pair of youthful hosts feel at their ease by laughter that sounded as thin as broken glass. “I’m sorry to inflict this atmosphere of gloom upon you,” said Mr. Kenrick. “Let’s try to dissipate it in a bottle of champagne. I did my best to order a special supper, but my efforts were regarded with suspicion by the management. Your fellow performers over there seem to be enjoying themselves. Touring with them must be rather like travelling with an aviary of large and noisy birds.” “Oh, but they’re such dears,” Nancy exclaimed, in arms against any criticism of her fellow players. Mr. Kenrick put up a monocle and looked across at the group for a moment. Then he let it fall without comment. “You sang better than ever to-night,” he said gravely. Nancy felt that she simpered. “I’m in earnest, you know. What are you going to do about it?” “My voice?” He nodded. “What can I do?” “You could have it trained.” “But, my dear man, do you realize that I’m twenty-eight? Rather late in the day to be cultivating operatic ambitions.” “Not at all when the voice is as good as yours, and if you go to the right man.” “And where is he to be found?” “Naples.” Nancy laughed. “It’s like a fairy-story where the poor heroine is set an impossible task by the wicked stepmother. How do you think I could afford to go to Naples?” “That’s just what I wanted to discuss with you,” said Kenrick. “But wait a moment,” Nancy interrupted. “I have a little girl.” “What has that got to do with training your voice?” “Why, this. Every penny that I can save I am saving for her. She is in a convent now, and when she leaves school in another twelve years I want her to have a voice and be able to afford to pay for its training. I want her to have everything that I lacked. I would be wrong to spend the money I have saved in building castles in Spain for myself.”