ion, the girl in nurse's dress. His back and her
profile were turned our way, but at the sound of the opening door he
wheeled on the stool, and both stared at Mr. Beckett. Also they stared
past him at me. Why at me, and not the others, I could never have
guessed then.

Our little room was lit by red-shaded candles on the table, while the
_salon_ adjoining blazed with electricity. As the doors opened, it was
like the effect of a flashlight for a photograph. I saw that the man and
the girl resembled each other in feature; nevertheless, there was a
striking difference between the two. It wasn't only that he was squarely
built, with a short throat, and a head shaped like Caruso's, whereas she
was slight, with a small, high-held head on a slender neck. The chief
difference lay in expression. The man--who now looked younger than I had
thought--had a dark, laughing face, gay and defiant as a Neapolitan
street boy. It might be evil, it might be good. The girl, who could be
no more than twenty, was sullen in her beauty as a thundercloud.

The singer jumped up, and took a few steps forward, while the girl stood
still and gloomed.

"I hope I didn't disturb you?" The question was asked of Mr. Beckett,
and thrown lightly as a shuttlecock over the old man's head to us in the
next room. It was asked in English, with a curiously winning accent,
neither Italian nor Irish, but suggesting both.

"Disturbed!" Father Beckett explained that his errand was to beg for
more music. "It's like being at the opera!" was the best compliment he
had to give.

The young man smiled as if a light had been turned on behind his eyes
and his brilliant white teeth. "Delighted!" he said. "I can't sing
properly nowadays--shell shock. I suppose I never shall again. But I do
my best."

He sat down once more at the piano, and without asking his audience to
choose, began in a low voice an old, sweet, entirely banal and utterly
heartbreaking ballad of Tosti's, with words by Christina Rossetti:

"When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me,
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree.
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet,
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.

I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on as if in pain.
And dreaming through the twilight
That does not rise nor set,
Hap