rather wondering at the apparently
irrelevant turn the conversation had suddenly taken.

"Well, then, in me you behold a future Melba and a Patti rolled into
one."

"Do you mean that you are a singer?" asked Margaret.

"A future Melba--Patti--Tetrazzini, I should have said," Eleanor returned
gravely. "But I see from your bewildered expression that you haven't
very much idea what I am talking about, so I will explain. As a child at
home I did not care much about music, chiefly, I think, because I did not
want to be made to practice too much, and when I first went to Waterloo
House I felt I liked it still less. The pianos there were mostly cracked
and old, the girls, very few of whom had a note of music in their
composition, thumped them all day long until I grew fairly sick of the
sound, and as I had to superintend the practising of the younger ones,
you may guess how much I enjoyed myself. But last Christmas holidays,
during which I was left by myself as usual, for Miss McDonald always went
away for a change, and she was so delicate, poor thing, that unless she
had gone away to the country or to the seaside two or three times a year
she could never have got through the terms, I took to practising a good
deal. It may sound horribly conceited, but I fell in love with my own
voice on the spot, and there, in the cold drawing-room, I used to sit and
sing all sorts of rubbishy, sentimental songs until my voice was husky
with mingled emotion and fatigue. Then I thought I would go to a few
concerts and find out if any of the great singers had such a lovely voice
as mine."

"And had they?" queried Margaret, as Eleanor, who had been talking at a
great rate, paused for breath.

"Had they?" repeated Eleanor with a little laugh. "They had. I came home
that evening quite out of love with my own voice, and before those
holidays were over I spent my half-yearly allowance, which I had only
just got, as well as my last quarter's salary, in tickets for concerts
and operas. It was the best time I had had since I left Ireland. In the
afternoons and evenings I used to go to concerts, and the mornings I
spent practising. But I gave up the songs and went in for scales only,
and I could hear my voice improving every day. I longed for some one who
really knew to tell me if my voice was any good, but I didn't know who to
ask. Miss Marvel, the school singing mistress, had no more voice than a
mouse, and what was worse, no ear. She would let a