msy wrote each other rapturously on receipt of the news, but
they were not fluent or expressive, either of them, and they could only
underline and put in a reckless number of exclamation points. "_Gee_,"
wrote Jimsy King, "isn't it immense? Skipper, I can't tell you how I
feel--but, by golly, I can _show_ you when I get there!"

And Honor, reading that line, grew rosily pink to the roots of her
honey-colored hair and flung herself into an hour of practice with such
fire and fervor that the _Signorina_ came and beamed in the doorway.

"So," she nodded. "News? Good or bad?"

"Good," said Honor, swinging round on the piano stool. "The best in the
world!"

"So? Well, it does not greatly matter which, my small one. It does not
signify so much whether one feels joy or grief, so long as one feels. To
feel ... that is to live, and to live is to sing!"

Honor sprang up and ran to her and put her arm as far around her as it
would go. She was a delicious person to hug, the _Signorina_, warm and
soft and smelling faintly of rare and costly scents.

"_So?_" said the great singer again. "It is of some comfort, then, to
embrace so much of fatness, when your arms ache to feel muscles and hard
flesh? There, there, my good small one," she patted her with a puffy and
jeweled hand, "I jest, but I rejoice. It is all good for the voice,
this."

"_Signorina_," said Honor, honestly, "I've told you and told you, but
you don't seem to believe me, that I'm only studying to fill up the time
until they'll let me marry Jimsy. I love it, of course, and I'll always
keep it up, as much as I can without neglecting more important things,
but----"

"Mother of our Lord," said the Italian, lifting her hands to heaven,
"'more important things' says this babe with the voice of gold, who, by
the grace of God and my training might one day wake the world!"

"More important to _me_," said Honor, firmly. "I know it must seem silly
to you, _Signorina_, dear, but if you were in love----"

"Mothers of all the holy saints," said the fat woman, lifting her hands
again, "when have I not been in love? Have I not had three husbands
already, and another even now dawning on the horizon, not to
mention--but there, that is not for pink young ears. I will say this to
you, small one. Every woman should marry. Every artist _must_ marry. Run
home, then, in another year, and wed the young savage, and have done
with it. Stay a year with him--two if you like--until there