Thurley flushed, saying in a more natural voice, “Not exactly. To her mind it is the more enhancing—keeping mankind at bay. And it settles a distressing question for me.... I daresay I’d make a cropper of marriage, most of us do. This way, I do as I like,” turning to contemplate the empty fireplace. “Must I be coached this morning?” she added. “My throat feels scratchy and I have a benefit concert to-night.” “It wasn’t your voice—but yourself.” He ended the song and, rising, took an opposite chair before the fireplace. “I am going away earlier than usual this year because of some work in England; making art aid the war. If I don’t see you again, let me give you a little moral coaching which is all you need to set you right.” She would have interrupted, but he held up a protesting hand. “Age before camouflage,” he pleaded. “For a long time, Thurley, I have been watching you. You have come now to where you feel that an utter disregard of morals is really preparation and a necessary frame of mind in order to win the violet crown—” “What do you mean by the violet crown?” She did not look at him. “One of my pet names.” He became boyish in manner as he always did when prevailed upon to speak of the things nearest his heart. “I’ve a lot of pet names—and secrets—tucked under this salt and pepper hair of mine. A long time ago, I sang rather well,—nice people have said I sang as well as yourself, with as much ease and as little training. That was why I understood you. My mother was an Italian and my father an American, but we lived in Italy to please my mother and, after my father died, she felt she could not bear to leave the blessed memories, for they had been ideally happy.” He seemed lost in a reverie from which he roused himself with an effort to continue: “After my mother was gone and I was singing as well as yourself and every one making quite a fuss over me and wanting me to tour America,” he seemed to dread even the saying of the words, “I loved a woman who was older than myself and who sang, too, but not well—more like Lissa. I loved her very dearly and, of course, I believed in her. But she was an art intriguer and not a worker and she said she loved me merely because my golden voice meant real gold—for her to spend.... After awhile,—I suppose I became a tedious, dreamy lad too occupied with ideals,—she found a man with a great deal of money and no more knowledge of music or art than a lapdog has.... Without telling me, she went up to Paris and they were married and she laughed at my moonings and made fun of my ideals.... For a long time I was ill, absurdly so, and when I was well, my voice was gone,” he tried to speak lightly, “but in its stead I had a vision.... Does that sound too superlative? It does to myself, for it is one of the things words spoil the full meaning of; it would take music to express it, a sonata inspired by the three oldest sounds in the world—”