He grasped her hand at this. “Yes, he will! too true! can’t be helped: they say I’m handsome.” “You’re lovely, Bella.” She drank in his homage. “Well, we’ll admit it. His Highness below likes lovely women, I hear say. A gentleman of taste! You don’t know all my accomplishments yet, Richard.” “I shan’t be astonished at anything new, Bella.” “Then hear, and wonder.” Her voice trolled out some lively roulades. “Don’t you think he’ll make me his prima donna below? It’s nonsense to tell me there’s no singing there. And the atmosphere will be favourable to the voice. No damp, you know. You saw the piano—why didn’t you ask me to sing before? I can sing Italian. I had a master—who made love to me. I forgave him because of the music-stool—men can’t help it on a music-stool, poor dears!” She went to the piano, struck the notes, and sang— “‘My heart, my heart—I think ’twill break.’ “Because I’m such a rake. I don’t know any other reason. No; I hate sentimental songs. Won’t sing that. Ta-tiddy-tiddy-iddy—a...e! How ridiculous those women were, coming home from Richmond! ‘Once the sweet romance of story Clad thy moving form with grace; Once the world and all its glory Was but framework to thy face. Ah, too fair!—what I remember Might my soul recall—but no! To the winds this wretched ember Of a fire that falls so low!’ “Hum! don’t much like that. Tum-te-tum-tum—accanto al fuoco—heigho! I don’t want to show off, Dick—or to break down—so I won’t try that. ‘Oh! but for thee, oh! but for thee, I might have been a happy wife, And nursed a baby on my knee, And never blushed to give it life.’ “I used to sing that when I was a girl, sweet Richard, and didn’t know at all, at all, what it meant. Mustn’t sing that sort of song in company. We’re oh! so proper—even we! ‘If I had a husband, what think you I’d do? I’d make it my business to keep him a lover; For when a young gentleman ceases to woo, Some other amusement he’ll quickly discover.’ “For such are young gentlemen made of—made of: such are young gentlemen made of!” After this trifling she sang a Spanish ballad sweetly. He was in the mood when imagination intensely vivifies everything. Mere suggestions of music sufficed. The lady in the ballad had been wronged. Lo! it was the lady before him; and soft horns blew; he smelt the languid night-flowers; he saw the stars crowd large and close above the arid plain this lady leaning at her window desolate, pouring out her abandoned heart. Heroes know little what they owe to champagne.