What was a poor impresario to do? He longed to grasp her by the
shoulders and shake the voice out of her; his hands fairly itched to
get hold of the obstinate little piece of humanity, who, in her
childishness, her helplessness, her blindness, thus defied him, and
set all his cherished plans at nought.

And yet he would not have shaken her probably, even had he dared to do
so. He was not a violent man, nor a wholly bad one. He could steal a
child, and convince himself that it was for the child's good as well
as his own; but he could not hurt a child. He had once had a little
girl of his own; it was quite true that he had intended to play a
father's part to Melody, if she would only have behaved herself. In
the grand drama of success that he had arranged so carefully, it was a
most charming role that he had laid out for himself. Anderson the
benefactor, Anderson the discoverer, the adopted father of the
prodigy, the patron of music. Crowds hailing him with rapturous
gratitude; the wonder-child kneeling and presenting him with a laurel
crown, which had been thrown to her, but which she rightly felt to be
his due, who had given her all, and brought her from darkness into
light! Instead of this, what part was this he was really playing?
Anderson the kidnapper; Anderson the villain, the ruffian, the invader
of peaceful homes, the bogy to scare naughty children with. He did not
say all this to himself, perhaps, because he was not, save when
carried away by professional enthusiasm, an imaginative man; but he
felt thoroughly uncomfortable, and, above all, absolutely at sea, not
knowing which way to turn. As he stood thus, irresolute, the woman by
his side eying him furtively from time to time, Melody turned her face
toward him and spoke.

"If you will take me home," she said, "I will sing to you. I will sing