s," she said uneasily, "but--but we are
only strangers as yet, aren't we?"

Had Eleanor not been at her wits' end to know what to say, she would
scarcely have uttered such an extremely _gauche_ remark as that, but as
a matter of fact she had not the very remotest idea what she was saying.

Lady Strangways drew back and looked gravely for a moment at Eleanor's
averted face. She was obviously unused to have her overtures rejected,
and she was wondering if Eleanor's ungracious answer and constrained
manner was dictated by shyness only.

"Yes, at present we are strangers," she made reply, rather coldly; "but I
wish to know my niece, and you mustn't call me Lady Strangways, you must
call me Aunt Helen."

"Oh, I would really rather not," Eleanor said, and this time her distress
and embarrassment were so marked that Lady Strangways, though she still
looked exceedingly puzzled, allowed her manner to soften.

"Never mind, then," she said, "I won't ask you to do anything you would
rather not. I hear you are having singing lessons from Madame Martelli.
Will you sing to me?"

"Oh, yes," Eleanor responded with alacrity. She started across the lawn
towards the house at a great rate, her relief at being released from the
immediate necessity of further conversation with her new-found relative
so plainly expressed in the way in which she was careful to keep a couple
of yards ahead of her, that Lady Strangways raised her eyebrows in mute
protest at her niece's extraordinarily _farouche_ behaviour.

When they reached the little drawing-room, gay with flowers, she sank
gracefully into a chair, and resigned herself to a rather trying five
minutes. Eleanor searched among her music, opened the piano, and sat
down.

"What are you going to sing to me, dear," Lady Strangways asked in a tone
of polite interest.

"_Ah fors e lui._"

Lady Strangways did her very best to repress a shudder. Not a month had
elapsed since she had seen Tetrazzini in "La Traviata," and it was rather
terrible to think of hearing her poor niece attempt any song out of that
opera.

"Or, if you would prefer it," said Eleanor, with a demureness that was
contradicted by the mischievous gleam in her red-brown eyes, "I will sing
you the Jewel Song out of 'Faust.'"

"That would be worse," Lady Strangways said hastily; "I mean, my dear,
that would be more difficult perhaps for you to grapple with. Really, I
have no choice in the matter; sing me what you like."

El