The signal for departure sounded, and the friends said good-bye. Mathilde had accompanied Hilda to the station, and had waited discreetly at a little distance during those last confidences. The two girls walked home to the Rue du Bac together, Hilda fearing lest she should run against her brother at any moment. And now Hilda's new life began in earnest, a life in a strange household, amidst new surroundings. She was to try and find consolation in hard work, in her love of music--to create for herself new interests, if it were possible, while every moment of her life was haunted by thoughts of the lover she had deserted, and the home that was to have been hers. She took her first lesson at the Conservatoire on the following Monday morning, and the professor who taught her was very encouraging about her voice and talent. He told her she possessed an organ worthy of the highest cultivation, capable of the grandest development. He put aside the little German song which she had taken with her, and gave her a solo of Glück's. "You were taught by Mdlle. Duprez, I understand," he said. "An admirable woman, quite an admirable manner--one of Garcia's best pupils, and one of the few women capable of profiting to the uttermost by Garcia's teaching. You have been taught in the best school, Mademoiselle, and you have nothing to unlearn. That is saying a great deal. On the other hand, I need not tell you that you have a great deal to learn." "I am sure of that, sir. I have come to Paris on purpose to profit by your instructions." "With a view to appearing in opera?" "O, no," exclaimed Hilda, blushing; "I have no such lofty ambition. I only want to sing a little better than I do--to amuse my brother." "That is a very limited horizon." "And for my own pleasure in good music." "I see. Art for art's sake. There are very few nowadays who care to work for art in the abstract. I shall be very proud of such a pupil." Hilda's fresh young face--fresh in its youthfulness, despite the settled sadness in the eyes--her blushes and simplicity, had fascinated the gray-headed singing-master. Louise Duprez had hinted at Hilda's story--a broken engagement, a girl's first sorrow. He had been told that his new pupil was an English girl of good family, brought up in a remote province, inexperienced, pure-minded; and he who had for the last forty years been steeped in the vanity, vices, and falsehoods of the great garish city felt his heart drawn towards this gentle girl, with her faint perfume of well-bred rusticity. "You have a very fine voice, my dear child, and it is a great pity you are not obliged to earn your own living," he said, smiling at her, as he rose from the piano. "I shall expect you to sing me that scena in first-rate style next Wednesday." CHAPTER V. REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.