“My mood has been dealt with long ago,” cried Clare. “It is in the opera of 'Orféo'--the despair of Orpheus when he was longing for the unattainable. Oh, I would make a splendid Orpheus at the present moment.” She almost flung herself down on the piano seat and struck a chord; but she only sang a phrase or two of the marvellous lament “Che farô senz' Eurydice?” Her voice was choked. She sprang from her seat and threw herself into the sympathetic arms of her friend. Only for an instant did she remain there. With a long kiss and a rapid “Good-night” she harried from the room. Agnes was left alone to try to put a coherent interpretation upon her mood. She commenced her task with smiles, thinking of the sentimental young Italian who had not shrunk from the attempt to adapt a serenade to an English November; but before long her smiles had vanished. She sat thinking for a long time; and yet the whole sum of her thoughts found no wider expression than the sigh which came from her as she said: “Poor child! poor child! May she never know the truth! That is my prayer for her to-night.” CHAPTER XXII. |He may come at any time,” cried Clare, after breakfast the next morning. “But I shall be prepared for him. Why will men be so foolish? Why should he follow me to England in the month of November? Has he no regard for his voice? Where would he be if he failed to do the C natural some day? And yet he is foolish enough to run the risk of ruining his career simply for the sake of impressing me with his devotion!” There seemed to Agnes to be a note ot hardness in the girl's way of speaking about her unhappy lover. Her intolerance of his devotion seemed a trifle unkind. “Don't you think that he should have your sympathy, my dear?” she asked. “Do you fancy that he is to be blamed on account of the shortcomings in Signor Marini's system? Surely he is more to be pitied than blamed for falling in love with some one who refuses to respond to him?” Clare made a little impatient movement, but in another second she became penitent, and hung her head. “I suppose I should be sorry for Ciro,” she said, mournfully. “Yes, I think I do feel a little pity for him, in spite of his sentimental foolishness. Undoubtedly the maestro was to blame. I know that it was he who encouraged the susceptible Ciro in spite of all that I could say. But why should the foolish boy single me out for his adoration when he knew very well that there were four soprani and three contralti in the class who were ready to catch the handkerchief whenever it might please him to throw it? They all worshipped him. I could see it plainly when he got upon his upper register, with now and again a hideous falsetto D; and yet nothing would content him--he must lay his heart at my feet. Those were his words; don't fancy that they are mine.”