the cart, and with what elegant abandon and ultra-dilettantism did
he light a cigarette, reseat himself at the piano, and weave Scots
ballads into a charming impromptu! I confess I wrapped my shilling
in a bit of paper and dropped it over the balcony with the wish that
I knew the tragedy behind this little street drama.

Willie Beresford was in a royal mood that night. You know the mood,
in which the heart is so full, so full, it overruns the brim. He
bought the entire stock of the lavender seller, and threw a shilling
to the mysterious singer for every song she sung. He even offered
to give--himself--to me! And oh! I would have taken him as gladly
as ever the lavender boy took the half-crown, had I been quite,
quite sure of myself! A woman with a vocation ought to be still
surer than other women that it is the very jewel of love she is
setting in her heart, and not a sparkling imitation. I gave myself
wholly, or believed that I gave myself wholly, to art, or what I
believed to be art. And is there anything more sacred than art?--
Yes, one thing!

It happened something in this wise.

The singing had put us in a gentle mood, and after a long peroration
from Mr. Beresford, which I do not care to repeat, I said very
softly (blessing the Honourable Arthur's vociferous laughter at one
of Salemina's American jokes), "But I thought perhaps it was
Francesca. Are you quite sure?"

He intimated that if there were any fact in his repertory of which
he was particularly and absolutely sure it was this special fact.