into a chair, and sat for many moments brooding over the fire. Her hand
shielded her face; yet it could not conceal the anxious lines above her
eyes nor the drooping lips. Lorimer had asked permission to call upon
her, that evening, and she knew by instinct what the evening was holding
in store for her. Confronted with the final decision, she was at a loss
which course to take. Should she close her eyes to the plague-spot which
might one day spread and spread until it tainted her whole life? The
present was very tempting. Why not take it, and ignore the future? Most
girls would wink at the suspicion which, during the past week, had been
clouding her dream of perfect content. How far was she accountable for
the future?

She dressed hurriedly; but when she reached Mrs. Stanley's house, the
recital had already begun, and she dropped into a seat outside the
music-room door. The artist was a new star upon the horizon. She had
supposed him to be only one of the vast milky way which helped to shed a
dim light upon Mrs. Stanley, as that good lady clambered slowly up the
social ladder. Instead of that, Beatrix entirely forgot Mrs. Stanley's
antics, in watching for the star itself. She even dismissed Lorimer from
her mind, as she bent forward in eager listening to the invisible
singer.

"Great fellow, Schubert!" her cousin observed, sauntering up to her side
as soon as the recital was ended. "They say that this Thayer is daft
upon the subject of him. Anyway, he manages to interpret him fairly
well. What did you think?"

She pulled herself out of her absorption and laughed.

"Don't expect me to analyze him, Bobby. He is past that."

"Bad or good?"

"Good, if making havoc of my nerve centres is any test."

"Then you really liked him? I thought you didn't want to come."

"I didn't. Nothing but a stern sense of duty brought me; but it also
brought its own reward. One hears such a voice only once a decade."

Bobby Dane eyed her askance.

"Sure this is yourself, Beatrix? I thought you scoffed at all baritones,
and only delighted in maudlin tenors and anticking sopranos. I have
hopes of you yet; but whence comes your conversion?"

"From this man, Mr. ----." She referred to the programme in her hand.

"Thayer," her cousin prompted. "Cotton Mather Thayer."

Beatrix gasped.

"Bobby! What a name for an artist!"

"For a punster, you'd better say; but at least one can't doubt its
genuineness. If he had been going to assume