before--without the music, I mean."

"Then I'll go and fetch her," said the indefatigable hostess; and now
everybody seemed to know that Mr. Lionel Moore was about to sing "The
Starry Night."

Miss Georgie Lestrange was no sooner appealed to than she came through
the crowd, smiling and laughing. She was an exceedingly pretty lass,
with fresh-complexioned cheeks, a pert and attractive nose, a winsome
mouth, and merry blue eyes that were hardly made grave by the
_pince-nez_ that she habitually wore. She was very prettily dressed,
too--in blue-and-silver brocade, with a high Medici collar of silver
lace, puffed sleeves with twisted cords of silver, and silver fillets
binding the abundant masses of her ruddy-golden hair. She sat down at
the piano, and the first notes of the accompaniment deepened the silence
that now prevailed, not only in this big studio, but throughout the
communicating rooms.

Probably there was not a human being in the place who had not heard this
serenade sung a dozen times over, for it was the most popular air of the
most popular piece then being played in London; but there was some kind
of novelty in listening to the same notes that had thrilled through the
theatre (rather, that had sent their passionate appeal up to a certain
mysterious balcony, in the dim moonlight of the stage) now pulsating
through the hushed silence of these modern rooms. Lionel Moore was not a
baritone of altogether rare and exceptional gifts, otherwise he might
hardly have been content with even the popularity and the substantial
rewards of comic opera; but he had a very excellent voice for all that,
of high range, and with a resonant and finely sympathetic _timbre_
that seemed easily to find its way (according to all accounts) to the