"No," answered Basil complacently, "but I have heard a great deal, and as most of my life has been passed among musicians I have picked up a general knowledge of the technicality of the art. Shakespeare never committed a murder, yet he wrote Macbeth and Hamlet. Balzac did not fall in love till somewhere about the forties, but, he wrote 'Modeste Mignon,' and 'La Lys dans la vallee,' before that age--one does not need to be an artist to possess the critical faculty." By this time they had arrived at the chancel, and Reginald came forward to meet them, blushing a little with modesty on discovering three listeners instead of one. "I must congratulate you on your voice once more," said Beaumont looking at him, "my advice is to go to London at once and study." "London!" echoed Blake disbelievingly, "why not Italy?" "A tradition only," replied the artist calmly, "because Italy is the land of song every singer thinks he or she must study there, but I assure you it's a mistake--London and Paris have as good teachers as Milan and Rome--I may say better, for everyone goes to the place where the largest income is to be made." "How cynical," said Una playfully. "And how true--this is not the golden age, Miss Challoner, but the age of gold--there is a vast difference between Arcady and Philistia, I assure you." "I think I'll take your advice," observed Blake gaily, "perhaps I've got a fortune in my throat, who knows?" "Who, indeed?" said the artist gravely, "they pay nightingales well now-a-days." "All the better for Mr. Blake," said Una lightly, "but how rude I am, I must introduce you two gentlemen to the organist--Miss Mosser--Dr. Nestley and Mr. Beaumont." Beaumont, not knowing Cecilia was blind, merely bowed, but Nestley took the fragile hand of the girl and grasped it warmly. "I enjoyed your playing so much," he said heartily, "where did you learn?" On hearing his voice the pale face of the blind girl coloured, and a painfully eager look crossed her features, as if she were trying to see the speaker's countenance in spite of her infirmity. "What a beautiful voice," she murmured softly, and Nestley had to repeat his question before she answered: "At the school for the blind at Hampstead," she said turning towards him, which reply gave Nestley a painful shock as he realized her misfortune. With delicate tact, however, he passed the answer off lightly in a conversational manner. "I don't know much about music myself," he said easily, "it seems such a complicated affair--are you fond of it?" "Very," answered the blind girl quickly. "You see it is the only pleasure I have. When I go out on to the common and feel the fresh wind and smell the perfume of the gorse, I come back here and try and put it all into music. I often thank God for being able to play the organ."