It was one of the most beautiful I had ever heard, and contained human pathos, sadness, and at times even mirth. Besides, she rendered it with beautiful expression, such as could only come from one whose whole soul was in the work. I waited till the end, and then after the first spell had passed I looked round, expecting the applause which never came. She stood still too, probably expecting the same thing. But at last, amidst the indifferent silence, someone called out, “That was insipid, and every other note was wrong.” Hereupon followed a chorus of laughing assent, and among the general hubbub she withdrew. I gazed about with an indignation I found it hard to restrain, till at last my eyes lighted on Plucritus. He was sitting watching me, an amused smile on his face. “Why don’t you get up and say ‘It’s a lie’?” he whispered. “I believe,” said I, “the only reason is that I lack moral courage. It can be nothing else.” Whereat he burst out laughing, and one or two of those near us turned to see who it was. “You there, Plucritus? Why do you laugh?” called one. “Oh! I have a very amusing companion, who says the lady should be recalled and asked to sing again.” “Yes, we have sent to ask her. One trial does not make a complete failure.” Gradually there was silence, and in the midst of it the singer returned. I do not think she recognised anything about her. Her whole mind seemed bent upon her task; she scarce appeared to recognise her previous failure, except perhaps in the first line, when for one second her voice seemed about to break. The song was different from the other. It was extremely simple, and whatever beauty it contained was derived from its simplicity. In the last lines I noticed again that her voice trembled, and silence fell once more. Presently there came another voice from another part of the room, “Utterly absurd!” and another, “I had hardly the patience to listen to the end!” and another, “Does this creature imagine our understanding to be no higher than her own?” Amid this laughter and these taunts she withdrew again. But not for long. I think they must have sent again for her, because she soon returned. And this time I could tell the laughter and contempt had had effect. She sang again, and every line was steeped in a bitter and absorbing passion. Whether there was any beauty in it I could hardly say. At the end, however, she was met with stony silence; none took the trouble to make the slightest observation. Suddenly the orchestra struck up some wonderful soft dance music, and with a step as light as foam on water she tripped off the stage. At this they clapped and laughed. “She missed her vocation. She should have been a ballet girl,” Plucritus said to me. Then he rose quickly. “Come with me,” he went on, “I had nearly forgotten I brought you here as an observer; come quickly.”