dy, guessed them from the first. Susceptibility to musical
intoxication was a thing which he understood, a thing to which he
himself was more or less subject. He knew the danger and the value of
it. Without some such susceptibility, he believed, artistic
accomplishment was not possible. He had been thrown much into the
company of singers, players, painters, people whose profession was the
charming of a capricious public, and he saw in the girl many of the
requisites for success--not only the voice, so far unspoiled by bad
training, but the sensitiveness, the beauty, even the splendid physical
strength necessary to that most strenuous of all professions, operatic
singing. It flattered his vanity to realize that he was the discoverer
of a possible celebrity.

Song after song they tried together, Channing playing the
accompaniments. He played well, and made the most of rather faulty
music. Jacqueline thought the songs wonderful. It was her introduction
to the sensuous, discordant harmonies of Strauss and de Bussy, of whom
Channing was an ardent disciple. They puzzled and stirred her oddly.

Now and then as she leaned over Channing's shoulder to interpret the
difficult manuscript score, he glanced up to meet her eyes, no longer
merry and mischievous as was their wont, but curiously somber, languid.
He saw that she was giving herself to music as an opium eater surrenders
to the drug he loves, indifferent to her surroundings, unaware of them,
perhaps; but not unaware of him. It was to him she sang, however
unconsciously. Jacqueline had found the audience she needed, and she was
singing as she had never sung in her life before.

It was with some difficulty that Channing kept his attention on the
score.

Unnoticed, the long August twilight had come into the room, and a
servant shut it out unobtrusively with silken curtains. Later he
returned and announced dinner. Jacqueline's eyes opened suddenly as if
from sleep.

"What did he say?" she asked.

The servant cleared his throat and repeated, "Dinner is served."

"Dinner?" Jacqueline started. "You mean supper? Why, it's dark, and the
candles are lighted! Mr. Channing, what time is it? Goodness, I must
hurry! Mother'll be home by this time."

"Please, no," he protested. "I took the liberty of telling the servants
you would dine with me to-night. Why not, Miss Jacqueline? Do take pity
on my loneliness. Farwell does not return till to-morrow."

She hesitated, longingly. "I