am trying to invent a means of
turning it to account. It will be only a cheap electro-motor if it comes
to anything."

"You must explain that to me some day, Mr. Conolly. I'm afraid I dont
know what an electro-motor means."

"I ought not to have mentioned it," said Conolly. "It is so constantly
in my mind that I am easily led to talk about it. I try to prevent
myself, but the very effort makes me think of it more than ever."

"But I like to hear you talk about it," said Marian. "I always try to
make people talk shop to me, and of course they always repay me by
trying to keep on indifferent topics, of which I know as much--or as
little--as they."

"Well, then," said Conolly, "an electro-motor is only an engine for
driving machinery, just like a steam engine, except that it is worked by
electricity instead of steam. Electric engines are so imperfect now that
steam ones come cheaper. The man who finds out how to make the electric
engine do what the steam engine now does, and do it cheaper, will make
his fortune if he has his wits about him. Thats what I am driving at."

Miss Lind, in spite of her sensible views as to talking shop, was not
interested in the least. "Indeed!" she said. "How interesting that must
be! But how did you find time to become so perfect a musician, and to
sing so exquisitely?"

"I picked most of it up when I was a boy. My grandfather was an Irish
sailor with such a tremendous voice that a Neapolitan music master
brought him out in opera as a _buffo_. When he had roared his voice
away, he went into the chorus. My father was reared in Italy, and looked
more Italian than most genuine natives. He had no voice; so he became
first accompanist, then chorus master, and finally trainer for the
operatic stage. He speculated in an American tour; married out there;
lost all his money; and came over to England, when I was only twelve, to
resume his business at Covent Garden. I stayed in America, and was
apprenticed to an electrical engineer. I worked at the bench there for
six years."

"I suppose your father taught you to sing."

"No. He never gave me a lesson. The fact is, Miss Lind, he was a capital
man to teach stage tricks and traditional renderings of old operas; but
only the exceptionally powerful voices survived his method of teaching.
He would have finished my career as a singer in two months if he had
troubled himself to teach me. Never go to Italy to learn singing."

"I fear you are a cynic.