"That ugly Italian, as you call him, has heard some of the best prima
donnas in Europe. He is poor, he is seedy--for his voice left him just
as he was on the eve of success--but he was the only person in the
room who could tell me that I sang as well as the greatest of them."
Her voice quivered as she spoke.

"You are mistaken indeed, Miss Blanche," I said. "Any fellow there
would have paid you the same compliment if you had given him a chance;
but you were so confoundedly wrapped up in that Italian chap that you
would not look at the rest of us."

"I don't care for the compliment," she said, cooling down directly: "I
care for the truth. They don't know if I sing well or not."

"Then you only sing to be admired, Miss Furnaval?"

"I don't sing at all," she said, coloring.

"But you _should_ sing."

"Why?" she asked.

"To please--to give pleasure to others."

"I don't care to please any one but myself."

"But that is not right, you know. Now, I try to please everybody."

"Do you always succeed, Mr. Highrank?"