him, could he have foreseen that, in
his resentment, Lorimer's words to Beatrix would be slightly tinged with
aloes. It is not certain that, foreseeing, he would have cared. Beatrix
was nothing to him; of Lorimer he was strangely fond.

Beatrix had felt some curiosity as to the effect Thayer's voice might
have upon her. Familiarity in all truth does breed contempt, and a
second hearing often proves a disappointment. For Lorimer's sake, she
was anxious to enjoy the recital, and she drew a quick, nervous breath
as Thayer, followed by Arlt, came striding out across the little stage
with the same unconscious ease with which he had crossed her parlor, the
week before. As he waited for Arlt to seat himself, he glanced about the
room, his practised eye measuring its size and the probable nature of
his audience. For an instant, his glance rested upon Beatrix and
Lorimer, and he gave a slight smile of recognition. Then his shoulders
straightened and he came to attention, as Arlt struck the opening chord
of his accompaniment.

He had chosen to begin his programme, that night, with the _Infelice_
for, in spite of its Verdiism, it had been a favorite of his old master
in Berlin. Before he had sung a dozen notes, Beatrix, bending forward,
was listening with parted lips and flushing cheeks. Of Thayer as a man
who had dallied with one of her cups of tea, she took no account; but
his voice, sweet and flexible, was tugging at her nerves and setting
them vibrating with its note of passionate sadness. Then, gathering
power and intensity, it swept its hearers along upon its furious
tempest; yet, as she listened, Beatrix felt herself inspired for,
underneath it all, there was the same throbbing, insistent note which
seemed to assure her that the singer had hoped and lost and fought and
conquered, that he knew all about it, himself.

Lorimer nodded contentedly at the stage, as Thayer ended his song.

"That's all right; but they would better save their strength, for he
never gives an encore for the first number. What do you think of Thayer
now, Beatrix?"

She caught her breath sharply.

"That I should be a better woman, if I could hear him sing often."

"There's something in what you say. He makes me feel it, too. I never
have heard him sing better, though he always does that song well. He
told me once that he felt possessed with the spirit of his own
grandfather, whenever he started it. From all signs, his grandfather
must have been