"No, sir, I did not," said Eugene, indignantly. "You hit me unawares." "Gentlemen," said Fraser, "I am sure I am sorry any unpleasantness has arisen." "I beg your pardon, Mr. Fraser," said O'Donnell, "I forgot myself for a moment. I forgot where I was. Try to forgive me if you can, and to show you I have dismissed the thing from my mind, Dominique, will you forget and forgive?" he held out his hand to the Frenchman. Lavirotte took the hand slowly, pressed it between both his, kissed it, and said: "Eugene, I was wrong, you were right. That blow was delivered unawares, as another blow you remember." "That's right!" cried Fraser heartily. "That's right, men! Sit down, O'Donnell, you're not fit to sing for a while. Stop, I'll play you the overture to 'The Maid of Athens.' I have arranged it for the piano.... Well, what do you think of it?" he cried when he had finished. "I fancy I can hear some of the melodies on the street organs, and to get my stuff on the street organs is the height of my ambition. That is fame. That is glory. Now, O'Donnell, what will you sing?" "'My pretty Jane,'" said Lavirotte. "Sing 'My pretty Jane,' Eugene." "All right," said Eugene. And Fraser played the introduction. When O'Donnell had ceased to sing, Fraser turned round, caught him enthusiastically by the hand, and said: "Positively lovely, my dear fellow! The quality is perfection. Have you much of it? Enough for the Grand?" "I'm afraid not," said O'Donnell, shaking his head. "I could manage in a small house very well. I haven't as much, you know, as Dominique here." "But the quality, my dear fellow, the quality is exquisite. It's a bit of Guiglini." O'Donnell coloured with pleasure. Lavirotte said: "You never sang that song better, Eugene." "It couldn't be sung better. Sims Reeves himself might be proud of such an art. Tenors are hard enough to get, but to get a tenor with brains and a heart is about the rarest thing in the world. You have brains, and a heart, O'Donnell, and of course I needn't say that I'd rather have a song delivered as you sang now than the biggest shout of a forty-six-inch chested Italian _robusto_." Lavirotte put his hand quickly up to his left breast. Again he turned ashy white. He seemed to gasp for breath. "Are you not well, Dominique?" cried Eugene, placing his hand on him. "Ah!" sighed Lavirotte, "it's gone. For an instant the pain was great, and I thought I should suffocate. It is gone now. Let us think no more of it. You are in splendid voice to-day, Eugene. It was stupid of me to get ill just at that moment when I should have been applauding your success. Fraser, I told you he could sing." "Sing! I should think he can. Try something else, O'Donnell; something a little stronger." "Very well," said O'Donnell, "I'll give you one of the melodies, 'The Bard's Legacy.'" Lavirotte shuddered. "I don't know it," said Fraser. "Hum it for me." Then O'Donnell began.