I can say only that, while the mellow music rippled from his parted lips, it seemed as if the gates of Paradise had fallen ajar. He sang an old ballad that I had never heard. It was all about "Douglas Gordon," whose story flowed with the tide of a plaintive accompaniment which I think he must have arranged himself: for somehow, it was like him. All the sadness, all the sweetness in this sweet, sad, old world seemed concentrated in the Boy's angel voice, and listening, I was Douglas Gordon, and he was putting my life-sorrow into words. He took my heart and broke it, yet I would not have had him stop. Then, suddenly, he did stop, and the Contessa was in tears. "Bravo! bravo!" she cried, diamonds raining over two spasmodic dimples. "Again; something else." He sang Christina Rossetti's "Perchance you may remember, perchance you may forget," and the thrill of it was in the marrow of my bones. I had scarcely known before what music could do with me, and the voice of the little Gaetà, following the song, jarred on my ears as she praised the Boy, and pleaded for more. "I can't sing again to-night," said he. "I'm sorry, but I can sing only when I feel in the mood." "But you will come with Lord Lane, and stay at my villa, which I have taken at Aix--yes, if only for a few days? The Baron and Baronessa will be with me, too. You are going that way. Lord Lane has told me. Will you come?" "Is he coming?" "Lord Lane, tell him that you are." "You are very good, Contessa----" "There! You hear, it is settled." "If--Lord Lane makes you a visit, I will also, as you are kind enough to want me." Afterwards, when we had bidden the Contessa and her guardian dragons good-night, and it was arranged that we were to stay over to-morrow, on account of the lost bag, I said to the Boy on the way upstairs, "You've made a conquest of the Contessa." He blushed furiously, looked angry, and then burst out laughing. "Are you jealous?" he asked. "I ought to be." "But are you?" "I haven't had time to analyse my emotions. Why did you never tell me you sang?" "I wasn't ready--till to-night. Now--I sang for you." "I thought it was for the Contessa." "Did you? Well"--with sudden crossness--"you may go on thinking so, if you like. Can she sing?" "Rather well." "As--better than I can?" "You must judge for yourself when you hear her." "You might tell me. But no! I don't want you to, now. It's spoiled. Good-night." "Good-night. Dream of your conquest." "Probably she's only trying to--to bring you to the point, by being nice to me. I wonder if you care?" I would not give the little wretch any satisfaction. I merely laughed, and an odd blue light flashed in his eyes. He was making up his mind to something, for the life of me I could not tell what.