an--the man of the musical voice--talk
about Lady Sinfi with the greatest admiration and regard. He wound up
by saying, 'By the bye, where is she now? I should like to use her in
painting my new picture.'

'She's in Wales; so Kiomi told me.'

'Ah yes! I remember she has an extraordinary passion for Snowdon.'

'Her passion is now for something else, though.'

'What's that?'

'A man.'

'I never saw a girl so indifferent to men as Lady Sinfi.'

'She is living at this moment as the mistress of a cousin of Cyril
Aylwin.'

My blood boiled with rage. I lost all control of myself. I longed to
feel his face against my knuckles.

'That's not true,' I said in a rather loud voice.

He started up, and turned round, saying in a hectoring voice, 'What
was that you said to me? Will you repeat your words?'

'To repeat one's words,' I said quietly, 'shows a limited
vocabulary, so I will put it thus,--what you said just now about
Sinfi Lovell being the mistress of Cyril Aylwin's cousin is a lie.'

'You dare to give me the lie, sir? And what the devil do you mean by
listening to our conversation?'

The threatening look that he managed to put into his face was so
entirely histrionic that it made me laugh outright. This seemed to
damp his courage more than if I had sprung up and shown fight. The
man had a somewhat formidable appearance, however, as regards build,
which showed that he possessed more than average strength. It was the
manifest genuineness of my laugh that gave him pause. And when I sat
with my elbows on the table and my face between my palms, taking
stock of him quietly, he looked extremely puzzled. The man of the
musical voice sat and looked at me as though under a spell.

'I am a young man from the country,' I said to him. 'To what theatre
is your histrionic friend attached? I should like to see him in a
better farce than this.'

'Do you hear that, De Castro?' said the other. 'What is your
theatre?'

'If he is really excited,' I said, 'tell him that people at a public
supper-room should speak in a moderate tone or their conversation is
likely to be overheard.'

'Do you hear this young man from the country, De Castro?' said he.
'You seem to be the Oraculum of the hay-fields, sir,' he continued,
turning to me with a delightfully humorous expression on his face.
'Have you any other Delphic utterance?'

'Only this,' I said, 'that people who do not like being given the lie
should tell the truth.'

'May