Tristrem gazed at her in a manner that would have mollified a tigress. "I was not bored. I had never heard anyone sing before." "Yet your friend, Mr. Weldon, tells me that you are very fond of music." "That is exactly what I mean." At this speech of his she looked at him, musingly. "I wish I deserved that," she said. Tristrem began again with new courage. "It is like anything else, I fancy. I doubt if anyone, ignorant of difficulties overcome, ever appreciates a masterpiece. A sonnet, if perfect, is only perfect to a sonneteer. The gallery may applaud a drama, it is the playwright who judges it at its worth. It is the sculptor that appreciates a Canova----" They had reached the corner where the barrel-organ was in ambush. A woman dragging a child with Italy and dirt in its face followed them, her hand outstretched. Tristrem had an artful way of being rid of a beggar, and after the fumble of a moment he gave her some coin. "--And the artist who appreciates rags," added Miss Raritan. "Perhaps. I am not fond of rags myself, but I have often caught myself envying the simplicity which they sometimes conceal. That woman, now, she may be as pleased with my little gift as I am to be walking with you." "I thought it was my voice you liked," Miss Raritan answered, demurely. Tristrem experienced a mental start. A suspicion entered his mind which he chased indignantly. There was about the girl an aroma that was incompatible with coquetry. "You would not, I am sure, have me think of you in the _vox et præterea nihil_ style," he replied. "To be candid, I thought that very matter over the other night." He hesitated, as though waiting for some question, but she did not so much as look at him, and he continued unassisted. "I thought of a flower and its perfume, I wondered which was the more admirable, and--and--I decided that I did not care for tulips." "But that you did care for me, I suppose?" "Yes, I decided that." Miss Raritan threw back her head with a movement indicative of impatience. "I didn't mean to tell you," he added--"that is, not yet." They had crossed Broadway and were entering Fifth Avenue. There the stream of carriages kept them a moment on the curb. "I hope," Tristrem began again, "I hope you are not vexed." "Vexed at what? No, I am not vexed. I am tired; every other man I meet--There, we can cross now. Besides, I am married. Don't get run over. I am going in that shop." "You are _not_ married!" "Yes, I am; if I were a Harvard graduate I would say to Euterpe. As it is, Scales is more definite." She had led him to the door of a milliner, a portal which Tristrem knew was closed to him. "If you care to come and see me," she added, by way of _congé_, "my husband will probably be at home." And with that she opened the door and passed into the shop.