better join the Cause."

"I'd love to! Shall I have to go to meetings with Sobrenski and all
the rest of them?"

"Probably. But you'll not be expected to talk. You may be told to do
some writing or carry messages."

"Is that all?" She seemed rather disappointed. Emile felt for a
moment almost inclined to develop scruples. She evidently regarded
Anarchy at large as a species of particularly exciting diversion.

"Who are the other women mixed up with it?" she asked.

"There are no other women. You should feel honoured that we are having
you."

Emile stood up, having completed his renovating operations. "You want
to sing, eh?" Arithelli assented eagerly. "You will work?" Emile
demanded.

"Yes!" Her eyes had become suddenly like green jewels, and she looked
almost animated. She was more interested in Emile's music than in any
other part of him. His wild Russian ballads sung with his strange
clipped accent and fiery emphasis, fascinated her. She was content to
listen for an indefinite period of time, her long body in a restful
attitude, her feet crossed, her hands in her lap, as absolutely
immovable as one who is hypnotised.

Emile, for his part, was equally interested in her exploits in
vocalism, which he found as extraordinary and unexpected as everything
else about her. Her singing voice was so curiously unlike her speaking
voice that it might have belonged to another person. It had tremendous
possibilities and a large range, but it was hoarse and harsh, and yet
full of an uncanny attraction. In such a voice a sorceress of old
might have crooned her incantations. Where did this girl get her soul,
her passion, he wondered; she who was only just beginning life.

He flung over an untidy pile of music, and dragged out the
magnificently devilish "_Enchantement_" of Massenet. "Try this," he
said abruptly. "It's _your_ kind of song."

For half-an-hour he exhorted, bullied and instructed, losing both his
composure and his temper. Arithelli lost neither. "I don't understand
music," she observed calmly. "But show me what to do and I'll do it.
Mine's a queer voice, isn't it? A regular croak."

"You've got a voice; yes, that's true, but you don't know how to
produce it, and you've no technique. You want plenty of scales."

"Wouldn't that take all the rough off, and make it just like anyone's
voice?"

Emile stared angrily at the exponent of such heresy, and was about to
annihilate her with sa