“Nonsense! I’m going to find out exactly what he does think about your voice and your prospects. I wager you’ll be pleasantly surprised to hear what a great opinion he has of you.” Kenrick left her soon after this, and then Nancy realised how terribly lonely she had been ever since she came to Naples. A few weeks ago she would have been vexed by the arrival of her patron. It would have embarrassed her. It might even have made her suspect him of ulterior motives. But his arrival now was a genuine pleasure, and if only he came away from Maestro Gambone with good news of her progress, she should be happier than she had been for months. Even an unfavourable report would be something definite, and in that case she could return to England immediately. Loneliness in beautiful surroundings was much harder to bear than fellowship in ugliness. To go back to playing adventuresses in the black country would have its compensations. When Kenrick returned to take her out to dinner, there was a smile on his sombre face. He put up his monocle and looked at Nancy quizzically. “You’re a nice one!” “What’s the matter? What have I done?” “I thought you told me you weren’t getting on?” “I didn’t think I was.” “Well, Gambone says you’re a splendid pupil, that you work very hard, that you have a glorious natural voice, and that if he can keep you another six months he’ll guarantee you an engagement at San Carlo next autumn. What more do you want?” Nancy caught her breath. “You’re joking!” “I’m not indeed. I was never more serious.” “But why didn’t he say something to me?” “Gambone is a Neapolitan. Gambone is a realist. About women he has no illusions. He thinks that the more he beats them the better they’ll be. He only told me all this after exacting a promise not to repeat it to you for fear you would be spoilt and give up working as well as you’re working at present. I reproached him with not having looked after you socially, and he nearly jumped through the ceiling of his apartment.” “‘She is here to work,’ he shouted. ‘She is not here to amuse herself.’ ‘But you might at least have managed to find her an escort for the opera.’ And I told him that you had not yet visited San Carlo. ‘_Meno male!_’ he squealed. I presume your Italian has at least got as far as knowing that _meno male_ means the less harm done. ‘_Meno male_ that she has not filled her head with other people’s singing. She has enough to do with her practising, enough to do to learn how to speak and pronounce the only civilised tongue that exists for a singer.’ I told him that you had been lonely, and what do you think he replied? ‘If she’s lonely, let her cultivate carnations. _Garofani!_’ he yelled at the top of his voice. ‘Believe me, my good sir, carnations are a thousand times more worth while than men and ten thousand times more worth while than women.’ ‘Even good contraltos?’ I laughed. ‘_Sicuro!_ Or sopranos, either,’ the old villain chuckled.”