"You are losing your beauty, child," Madame della Scala had discontentedly said to her that morning at breakfast-time; "you have grown ten years older in the last week. And it is the height of the season, and you have dozens of engagements! To-night, now, you sing at Lady Beauclerc's—do you not?"
"Yes, Madame; but I shall be all right by that time. I have a headache this morning."
"You are too white, child, and your eyes are heavy. It does not suit your style to be colorless. You had better get my maid to attend to you, before you go out to-night. She is incomparable at complexions."
"Thank you—I shall not need rouge when I begin to sing," said Cynthia, laughing rather joylessly; "the color will come of itself."
"I know one who always used to bring it," said Madame, casting a sharp glance at the girl's pale face. "He had it in his pocket, I suppose, or at the tips of his fingers—and I never saw it fail with you. Where is the magician gone, Cynthia mia? Where is Mr. Lepel—ce bel homme who brought the rouge in his pocket? Why, the very mention of his name does wonders! The beautiful red color is back again now!"
"I do not know where Mr. Lepel is," said Cynthia, wishing heartily that her cheeks would not betray her.
"You have not quarrelled?"
"I do not know, Madame."
"Ah, then, you have! But you are a very silly child, and ought to know better after all that you have gone through. Quarrelling with Mr. Lepel means quarrelling with your bread-and-butter, as you English people term it. Why not keep on good terms with him until your training, at any rate, is complete?"
Cynthia raised her dark eyes, with a new light in them.