Two girls, who happened to hear her singing, were entranced; and eagerly made friends with the performer; but when their portly mothers noticed them strolling in the grounds, with Letty in the middle, animated, and discoursing of music,--in answer to an imperative signal, she found herself suddenly deserted. Mrs. Glyn was not to be ‘known,’ that was too painfully evident; and the ‘mystery’ walked on alone, holding her head unusually high, acutely conscious that she was taboo! and filled with an angry, straining against circumstances, and against fate. “She does look so pretty, and so innocent!” admitted a wealthy matron, “and I admire her enormously as a picture--not otherwise. These ‘butter-would-not-melt-in-my-mouth’ class are notoriously dangerous!” To some of the men, Mrs. Glyn was naturally all the more attractive, because of the ladies’ veto; these were only too anxious to cultivate her acquaintance, but she shrank from their neighbourhood, and treated their anxious overtures, with discouraging hauteur. Although she had youth, beauty, health, and five hundred a year, what, she asked herself, did it avail, a woman with a past, and without hope, or future? If she only had the necessary courage, she might follow the example of a recent suicide, and scribble on a card, ‘No home, no friends--Exit,’ and then go and drown herself; it would be a simple ending to all her troubles, and her hopeless yearnings for Cara, and for Lancelot. Her thoughts of him, were inexpressibly painful, and tinged with acute remorse. Over and over again, she recalled his stricken face, and stern accusation, “Letty, you have made a fool of me,” and this was true--a pitiless and unanswerable fact. When the moon arose, and the bats began to flit about the garden, the mysterious beauty would repair to her own quarters, and there seek for sympathy in her piano. She sang not only well-known songs, but verses she had set to music. The air of one composition was peculiarly sad and haunting, and two City men who were strolling about together--discussing the market prices--halted, attracted by a beautiful voice which floated from an open window. As they stood, and listened, this is what fell on their ears. “Où vivre? Dans quelle ombre Étouffer mon ennui? Ma tristesse est plus sombre Que la nuit. “Où mourir? Sous quelle onde Noyer mon deuil amer? Ma peine est plus profonde Que la mer. “Où fuir? De quelle sorte Égorger mon remord? Ma douleur est plus forte Que la mort.” As the last words died away, one of the audience gave himself a vigorous shake, carefully examined his half-finished cigar, and exclaimed: “By George! that young woman must be in a bad way--eh? I wonder who she is? She is singing like one of those sirens that bothered old what’s-his-name. Shall we clap--eh?” “No,” with prompt emphasis, “the girl is singing--and her voice is exquisite--like some unhappy soul who has lost everything in the world.”