"You--you make us very happy--_maestro_." "Some day," cried Zoe, still thrilling from her effort, "I will sing until my high C hits the sky!" 'I think you will, _bella mia_, if you have in you the power to work for it." "I have." "Art is the most cruel paymaster in the world. It exacts full recompense, toil, and heartache before it deals out a first payment in success." "I'll pay! I'll pay for what I want, and most of all I want to sing!" She trilled up a brace of scales for him then, and there were minute questions of health and habits, and, finally, in a waiting pause, Lilly found word to ask the question against which her lips stiffened. "What--are--your terms--_maestro_?" Something strange happened then, his well-known acumen immediately asserting itself. It was as if he had slipped into another personality. "Fifteen dollars a lesson. She must have three a week and her school work and other studies should be reduced." "Lilly--we're too poor for that!" "I--I'm afraid my little girl is right, _maestro_. I--I couldn't even pay that for all three. I'm employed myself, you see." "Oh," he said, and walked off to the window, dilly-dallying on his heels and looking out. Finally he turned, with a gesture of dismissal. "I have never before, except Carrienta, done such a thing. It must be a secret between us. My belief is that art should be as well paid as any life work, whether it is dentistry or lawmaking or storekeeping. But your child here--they do not come so every day. In ten years, with hundreds of pupils each year, she is the greatest since Carrienta. But I must have first right to her. You hear, first right! I will teach her free of charge. Leave your name and address with my secretary as you go out. Send her Monday at four. Loose clothing. Not even corset waists. Good afternoon. Good-by--Zoe"--placing his hands on her curls as if for their warmth. In the room adjoining, under whisper of a very soft pedal, some one, probably a waiting pupil, was playing the indomitable pianoforte composition, "Melody in F." Staring at her daughter, an old conceit of Lilly's girlhood came flowing back. It seemed to her that a proscenium arch of music was forming over Zoe and that her voice, a high-flung scarf of melody, was winding itself reverently round a star. * * * * * That afternoon, Bruce Visigoth again asked Lilly to marry him. Taking advantage of the quiet of a Saturday afternoon half holiday, she had returned to the office to clear her desk of an accumulation of loose ends. In spite of herself, an extraordinary depression, low as storm clouds, was gathering over the excitation whipped up by Trieste's acceptance of Zoe. The tight squeeze of a lump was gathering in her throat. Finally she laid her cheek to the desk and cried a little pool of her unaccountable melancholy on to the glassed surface.