“A man cannot have a voice like that,” said Janet, “without knowing it. I will do my very best for you, but no one can give you a voice like that. And your sister sings very well, too. I think I could help her a little--but she doesn’t think so, which is a pity. But you cannot do as well as that, Mr. Harwood--oh, no, whatever we may do.” “I don’t mind,” said Dolff, magnanimously, “so long as you back me up, Miss Summerhayes. If you’re pleased, that’s all I care for. I know you don’t like Meredith, I’ve seen it in your eyes. We’ll have concerts of our own, and my mother will like it, for one, better than twenty Merediths. And Gussy can’t hold a candle to you--not in any way. Do you think I am so stupid that I can’t be trusted to see that?” Janet’s mind was a little excited by this conversation. An uninterrupted course of adulation is not a disagreeable thing altogether: even if we do not have a very high opinion to begin with of the genius of the person who expresses it, our idea of his judgment will probably improve when we see how he appreciates our merits. Janet was no doubt more or less influenced by this natural sentiment; but she was also a little shaken by his confidence in respect to Meredith. I know you don’t like him--was it true? She felt herself pulled up short by that unhesitating expression. I know you don’t like Meredith. It gave her heart a quicker beat: it was like the drawing up of a curtain upon a scene--a scene very much confused and covered with clouds, but not what her companion in ignorance of her and of all things had made sure it was. The curtain divided, opened for a moment, and then the folds fell back again, leaving her not much the wiser. No, not much the wiser; but not at least as Dolff supposed. After all he was a lout, though he admired her so much, which was a sign of good taste; but to take it for granted that he understood her was a little too much. Also, it was quite time to change the subject. He might rush upon her at any moment with other words that it might not be easy to answer. Decidedly the subject must be changed. She turned round upon him quite suddenly, though not without a little conscious artifice. “Mr. Harwood,” she said, “I want you to tell me one thing.” “A hundred things, Miss Summerhayes; as many as you like.” “Well, it is just this. Do you put full confidence in Mr. Vicars?” she said, looking him full in the face.