the other night. I have come here every
day since in the hope of----; you see, I wanted to ask if I might not
have the privilege of hearing you sing again?"

"If you consider it a privilege, certainly. On Sunday evening, though, I
thought you seemed rather bored." She made this answer very graciously,
with her head held like a bird's, a trifle to one side.

Tristrem gazed at her in a manner that would have mollified a tigress.
"I was not bored. I had never heard anyone sing before."

"Yet your friend, Mr. Weldon, tells me that you are very fond of music."

"That is exactly what I mean."

At this speech of his she looked at him, musingly. "I wish I deserved
that," she said.

Tristrem began again with new courage. "It is like anything else, I
fancy. I doubt if anyone, ignorant of difficulties overcome, ever
appreciates a masterpiece. A sonnet, if perfect, is only perfect to a
sonneteer. The gallery may applaud a drama, it is the playwright who
judges it at its worth. It is the sculptor that appreciates a
Canova----"

They had reached the corner where the barrel-organ was in ambush. A
woman dragging a child with Italy and dirt in its face followed them,
her hand outstretched. Tristrem had an artful way of being rid of a
beggar, and after the fumble of a moment he gave her some coin.

"--And the artist who appreciates rags," added Miss Raritan.

"Perhaps. I am not fond of rags myself, but I have often caught myself
envying the simplicity which they sometimes conceal. That woman, now,
she may be as pleased with my little gift as I am to be walking with
you."

"I thought it was my voice you liked," Miss Raritan answered, demurely.

Tristrem experienced a mental start. A suspicion entered his mind which
he chased indignantly. There was about the girl an aroma that was
incompatible with coquetry.

"You would not, I am sure, have me think of you in the _vox et praeterea
nihil_ style," he replied. "To be candid, I thought that very matter
over the other night." He hesitated, as though waiting for some
question, but she did not so much as look at him, and he continued
unassisted. "I thought of a flower and its perfume, I wondered which was
the more admirable, and--and--I decided that I did not care for tulips."

"But that you did care for me, I suppose?"

"Yes, I decided that."

Miss Raritan threw back her head with a movement indicative of
impatience.

"I didn't mean to tell you," he added--"that is, not yet."