tentedly down at her, as he sat by the piano, with one
muscular arm thrown across the rack.

"Well, what of it?" he inquired.

"Nothing, except that people say you are refusing engagements."

"A fellow must have a little time to enjoy his friends," he returned
coolly. "I can't be expected to sing, six nights a week."

"Your logic betrays your artistic nature. You have sung at five
recitals, this week. This is the sixth night; but you've not been
silent."

"You know you wanted to hear _Faust_ sung again."

"Yes, and so did Mrs. Stanley want you to sing at her house."

He looked up sharply.

"Who told you?"

"Mr. Arlt."

"Arlt shouldn't tell tales. But I had three good reasons for refusing: I
don't like Mrs. Stanley; she doesn't treat Arlt as well as she treats
her pug dog, and moreover you had asked me to dinner. I never sing after
a good dinner."

"But you mustn't refuse engagements."

"I didn't. I kept one."

"Engagements to sing, I mean. You seem to forget that you are a star."

"All the more reason I should stop twinkling now and then. I can't be on
duty, the whole time. Besides, Miss Gannion," he rose from the piano and
came forward to her side; "we can't give out, all the time. We must stop
occasionally to take something in, else our mental fuel runs low. I
wonder if you realize that this is the one place in New York City where
I can be entirely off my guard, entirely at home. A place like this
means a good deal to an isolated man."

"I am very glad," she said quietly.

"Most people forget that a public singer has a private personality," he
went on thoughtfully. "We are supposed to divide our time into even
thirds, practising, singing and receiving compliments. It gets to be a
positive delight to discuss the weather and the fashion in neckties."

"And to sing by the hour for your friends?" she inquired.

"It is our easiest way of speaking to them."

She laughed.

"But, on the other hand, you are demoralizing me completely. You have no
idea what empty, formal affairs recitals seem to me now; they are so
impersonal. I feel like grumbling, because I can't talk over each item
of the programme with the one who does it. I said something of the sort
to Miss Dane, the other day; but she told me she always dreaded the
sound of a speaking voice after one of your songs."

"She might have a species of choral service evolved for social use,"
Thayer suggested dryly. "The Gregorian tones would lend dign