“He said he would follow me to England--to the world's end,” laughed Clare. “Oh, these Italians have got no idea of things--the serenade needs an Italian sky--warmth and moonlight and the scent of orange blossoms, and the nightingale among the pomegranates. The serenade is natural with such surroundings; but in England, toward the end of November--oh, the notion is only ridiculous! He will have a cold to-morrow that may ruin his career. His tenor is of an exceptional quality, the maestro said: it cannot stand any strain, to say nothing of the open-air on a November night. What a fool he is!” “You have not yet told me what his name is,” said Agnes. “What? Surely I told you all about Ciro Rodani?” “Some weeks ago you mentioned the fact that you had a friend of that name, and that he had taken a part in an opera produced some time ago, and sent you a newspaper with an account of--of his success. You did not say that he was still in England.” “He didn't remain in England. He was in Paris when I last heard of him. He must have learned from Signor Marini that I was here. The maestro is the only one who knows my address. Oh, how silly he has been!” Agnes threw herself back in her chair and laughed. But Clare did not laugh--at first. On the contrary, she flushed and frowned, standing in the middle of the room. At last she laughed in unison with Agnes, as the latter said: “What a pretty little romance I have come upon all at once! Ah, my dear, I wondered how it was possible for you to remain in Italy so long without making victims of some of that susceptible nation. Poor Signor Rodani! But it was only natural. You studied together the most alluring of the arts--he a tenor, you a soprano. That is how the operas are cast, is it not? The tenor is invariably paired off with the soprano. But alas, he is not always such a marvel of fidelity as your friend outside. By the way, I hope he is not still in the garden. He will not form any exaggerated idea of English hospitality if we allow him to remain outside on so cold a night; but still, it is very late--too late for a couple of lone women to entertain a visitor, especially when that visitor is an operatic tenor.” “Oh, he has gone away, you may be sure,” said Clare. “Besides, he should know that houses in this country have knockers and bells. Why shouldn't he behave like a civilised person though he is a tenor?” “I'm afraid that you've become sadly prosaic since you arrived in England,” said Agnes. “Where is the romance in behaving like ordinary people? Knockers and bells are for prosaic people; the serenade and the guitar are for operatic tenors. I shouldn't wonder if your friend did a little in the guitar line also.” “He does a great deal in it,” laughed the girl. “Thank goodness he spared us the guitar.”