She laughed and protested. It was early--her voice was ropy as a hen’s--she only warbled for her own entertainment, and professed no knowledge of or subtilty in the art--indeed she had never submitted herself to discipline therein. And did not Mr. Tuke think that no acquired skill could compensate for the loss of native simplicity?--even should native simplicity (though she did not add this) ring a little false now and again? Mr. Tuke thought just as she did. He would rather listen to pretty Maudlin any day, than to the artfullest Pasta that ever shrieked herself into fame. At last Miss Royston gave way. “_Dove sono I bei momenti_?” she sang, in a fine, cultivated little voice, that was not unpleasant, as exemplifying the art that can surmount natural disabilities. And, when she had finished, her one listener applauded fatuously. “I would cry Brava!” said he, “were it not for bringing the atmosphere of the footlights into these enchanted gardens.” “That is right,” said Miss Royston; “though a little warmth would comfort them just now.” She was resolute not to sing again, despite his protestations. She had a nice eye for proportion in all matters affecting her own appearance, moral or physical. She led him across the room to a glazed door in a recess. The icy blast of the night had fallen dead on the grass, where it lay stiff amongst the ruin of the leaves it had scattered. He saw a wide stretch of frosty lawn, on which the fingers of the rising sun were busy assorting a millions of iridescent jewels. “It is like the angels of the Israelites snowing manna against breakfast-time,” said Mr. Tuke. He was in a mood of most dreamy romanticism. All this cultured and human beauty of orderliness seemed to him very gracious after his experience of desolation. The lady glanced secretly at her cavalier, with an approving tenderness. He fulfilled her expectations of him--stood appropriately in the foreground of the picture of mysterious melancholy her fancy had painted to receive him. “I could not breakfast on manna,” she said, with a full little laugh. “What sugar-babies the Israelites must have been! But I have often gone without breakfast at all when sketching, so completely has the pleasure absorbed me.” “You are an artist, too!” She owned that she was; and, indeed, she had quite a skill in making pretty little copies of landscapes after Turner, Bright, Stothard, and others, which she signed with her own name. Less often she ventured upon art at first hand. She had penetration enough to mentally appraise that subtle distinction shown by friends in the degrees of admiration accorded respectively her imitative and her original work. Now, however, in the assurance of appreciative comment, she was moved to reach for the manna she would have herself believe she despised. “That is one of my poor originals,” she said, inviting him by a gesture to an escritoire on which lay an open sketch-book.