“That is what she says,” said the Signor, “but she can’t understand what she is saying. Sing for the public! I suppose that means to her to appear before a crowd of people, to be stared at, criticised, brought down to the level of professional singers. The delight of raising a crowd to one’self, binding them into mutual sympathy, getting at the heart underneath the cold English exterior, that is what the foolish girl never thinks of and cannot understand.” “Ah!” said the Minor Canon. He was struck by this unexpected poetry in the Signor, who was not a poetical person. He said, “I don’t think I thought of that either. I suppose, for my part, I am very old-fashioned. I don’t like a woman to make an exhibition of herself.” “Do you suppose a real artist ever makes an exhibition of herself?” said the musician almost scornfully. “Do you suppose she thinks of herself? Oh, yes, of course there are varieties. Men will be men and women women; but anyone who has genius, who is above the common stock! However,” he added, calming himself down, and giving a curious, alarmed glance at his companion, to see whether, perhaps, he was being laughed at for his enthusiasm, “there are other reasons, that you will allow to be solid reasons, for which I want to get hold of this Miss Despard. You know Purcell, my assistant, a young fellow of the greatest promise?” “Purcell? oh, yes; you mean the son of----” “I mean my pupil,” said the Signor, hurriedly, with a flush of offence. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean anything unkind. It was only to make sure whom you meant. I know he is a good musician and everything that is good.” “He is a very fine fellow,” said the Signor, still flushed and self-assertive. “There is nobody of whom I have a higher opinion. He is a better musician than I am, and full of promise. I expect him to reach the very top of his profession.” Mr. Ashford bowed. He had no objection to young Purcell’s success: why should he be supposed to have any objection to it? but the conversation had wandered widely away from Miss Despard, in whom he was really interested, and his attention relaxed in a way which he could not disguise. This seemed to disturb the Signor still more. He faltered; he hesitated. At last he said with a sudden burst, “You think this has nothing to do with the subject we were discussing; but it has. Purcell, poor fellow! has a--romantic devotion; a passion which I can’t as yet call anything but unhappy--for Miss Despard.” “For Miss Despard?” The Minor Canon turned round at his own door with his key in his hand, lifting his eyes in wonder. “That is surely rather misplaced,” he said the next moment, with much more sharpness than was usual to him, opening the door with a little extra energy and animation. He had no reason whatever for being annoyed, but he was annoyed, though he could not have told why.