"If you knew how much pleasure you've given us all these mornings and
evenings," he said, "never having to be urged, but being so generous
with your great art----"

"Somehow it doesn't look so great to me to-night," said Azalea quietly.

I almost thought there were tears in her voice. She has a beautiful
speaking voice, as singers are apt to have.

Everybody was silent for an instant, in surprise--and anxiety. Azalea
was a very lovely girl--nobody had meant to hurt her.

Had the Skeptic's shot in the kitchen gone home? Nobody would be sorrier
than he to deal a blow where only a feather's touch was meant.

"It looks so great to me," said the Gay Lady very gently, "that I would
give--years of my life to be able to sing one song as you sing
Beethoven's '_Adelaide_.'"

"Of course I can't refuse, after that," said Azalea modestly, though
more happily, I thought, and the Philosopher went away with her into the
half-lit living room.

"May I say anything?" asked the Skeptic, looking up into the Gay Lady's
face, in the way he has when he wants to say things very much but is
doubtful how she will take them--a condition he is frequently in.

She shook her head--I think she must have been smiling. It was so
evident--that which he wanted to say. He wanted to assure her that her
own accomplishments----