"I am sick of London. I want to go home to Granny and be at peace," answered May wearily. Then she went on quickly, to stave off any possible questionings as to her state of mind. "But I must return for the present to my aunt's house. Good-bye." "Stay!" cried Clara. "Will you not get into the cab, and let me drive you home?" "Drive! It is an affair of some two or three minutes at most." "Well, then, if you have half an hour to spare, let me drive you round the square, and then drop you at home. I have been wanting for three or four days past to speak to you quietly. I can't bear to lose this rare opportunity. We do not meet very often." Then seeing that her friend hesitated, she asked, "Are you thinking about the cost of the cab for me?" "Yes," answered May frankly. "I thought so! That is just like you. But, indeed, you need have no scruples. The cab is engaged for the afternoon. When I sing at people's houses, unless they send a carriage for me, the cab-fare is 'considered in my wages.' Do come in!" May complied, and the cab moved away slowly. When they had proceeded a few yards, Clara said, "I wanted to tell you--I think it right to tell you--something I have learned on good authority. Your father--I hope it won't distress you--is really married." May's first thought was that here again her Aunt Pauline had deceived her! "Are you sure?" she asked. "Yes, I think I may say so." "And how did you learn it?" "From Valli." "Oh, from Signor Valli! But you told me he was not to be trusted." "In some ways not. But I do not doubt what he says on this subject. He has no motive to invent the information. He cares nothing about the matter--except that I think he rather likes La--Mrs. Cheffington than not." "Is she a foreigner?" asked May, with a little more interest than she had hitherto shown. Her listless way of receiving the news had surprised her friend. "Yes, an Italian. At least, she is Italian by language, if not by law; for she comes from Trieste. But she is almost Cosmopolitan; for she has travelled about the world a great deal. She is--or was--an opera-singer. Her name in the theatre is Bianca Moretti. She was rather celebrated at one time." Clara paused a moment, and then added, "I hope this news does not grieve you, dear?" "No," answered May dreamily, "it does not grieve me. If my father is content, why should I grieve? He and I have been parted--in spirit as well as body--for so many years, that his marriage can make but little difference to me." "I was afraid you might feel----Of course, Captain Cheffington's family will look on it as a dreadful _mésalliance_." May was silent for a few minutes. Then she said a very unexpected thing-- "Poor woman! I hope he is good to her!" "I suppose," said Clara, rather hesitatingly, "that the reason why Captain Cheffington has not announced his marriage to his relations is that he thinks they would object to receive an opera-singer."