than my best. When the moment comes, I shall live in the song, and
forget the audience. Let me tell you a lesson I once had from Madame
Blanche. I was singing Bemberg's CHANT HINDOU, the passionate prayer
of an Indian woman to Brahma. I began: 'BRAHMA! DIEU DES CROYANTS,'
and sang it as I might have sung 'DO, RE, MI.' Brahma was nothing to
me. 'Stop!' cried Madame Blanche in her most imperious manner. 'Ah,
vous Anglais! What are you doing? BRAHMA, c'est un Dieu! He may not
be YOUR God. He may not be MY God. But he is somebody's God. He is
the God of the song. Ecoutez!' And she lifted her head and sang:
'Brahma! Dieu des croyants! Maitre des cites saintes!' with her
beautiful brow illumined, and a passion of religious fervour which
thrilled one's soul. It was a lesson I never forgot. I can honestly
say I have never sung a song tamely, since."

"Fine!" said Garth Dalmain. "I like enthusiasm in every branch of
art. I never care to paint a portrait, unless I adore the woman I am
painting."

Jane smiled. The conversation was turning exactly the way she had
hoped eventually to lead it.

"Dal, dear," she said, "you adore so many in turn, that we old
friends, who have your real interest at heart, fear you will never
adore to any definite purpose."

Garth laughed. "Oh bother!" he said. "Are you like all the rest? Do
you also think adoration and admiration must necessarily mean
marriage. I should have expected you to take a saner and more
masculine view."