There was truth in this, although it was said by Tommy Toshington. There was no doubt that Lord Sandilands had powerful interest in all the ramifications of the musical world; and though this fact must for a long time have been patent to him, he never thought of it, never, at least, felt it so strongly as when he was turning over in his mind the curious chance which had brought him face to face with his daughter, and had been casting about as to how he best could serve her. That the girl had musical talent he was certain. He had served too long an apprenticeship, all amateur though it was, to his favourite science not to be thoroughly convinced of that; and he knew perfectly well that Grace Lambert's voice and style were both far beyond those possessed by most of the gifted pupils of the Academy of Music: for the most part delightful young persons, who came out with a gush, and went in with a run; who gave immense delight to their personal friends at the few concerts at which they sung gratuitously; and who may, according to the orthodox ending of the children's tales, "have lived happy ever after," but who, at all events, passed the remainder of their lives in obscurity, and were never heard of again. No; Grace Lambert--what the deuce had made her assume so unromantic a name? Gertrude Keith was fifty times as pretty--Grace Lambert was not to be measured by the usual bushel. Her voice, as Lord Sandilands recollected it at Carabas House, was one of the sweetest, the most _trainante_ and bewitching which, in all his great experience, he had ever listened to; and there was something about her personal appearance, her hair and _tournure_, which completely lifted her out of the common. "Psht!" said the old gentleman to himself, as he lay back in his easy-chair, revolving all these things in his mind--"how many of 'em have I seen? There was Miss Lavrock--charmin' voice she had, bright and shrill, like a bird's pipe--a little fat, dumpy body, that made the plank in the _Sonnambula_ creak beneath the weight of her ten stone, and looked more like a cook than Lucia; and there was Miss Greenwood--Miss Bellenden Greenwood, I beg her pardon--with her saucy black eyes, and her red-and-white complexion, and her corkscrew ringlets--gad, how horrible! But this child is marvellously _distinguée_ and bred-looking; the way her head is set on her shoulders, the shape of her head, the curve of her nostrils, and the delicacy of her hands--I'm always telling myself that blood's all bosh, as they say in their modern slang; but 'pon my word, one finds there's something in it after all!"