"Why, good heavens," cried Hubert, with something not unlike a gasp, "who on earth taught you to sing like that? And your voice—do you know, Miss West, that your voice is simply magnificent?"
Cynthia kept her head down, and continued to finger the notes—mutely this time.
"I have been told that I might be able to sing at private concerts," she said demurely.
"Private concerts! You might sing at Her Majesty's or Covent Garden—with a little more training perhaps," said Hubert, trying to be cautious, but failing to hide the satisfaction which shone out of his eyes as he approached the piano. "Why have you never sung to any manager? At least you may have done so, but I never heard a word of it; and a voice like yours would be talked about; you know."
"I suppose it was old Lalli's fault," said Cynthia carelessly. "He always impressed upon me that I could not sing a bit, and that I must wait for years and years before I dare open my mouth in public."
"And who is old Lalli?" asked Hubert, gathering up her music and beginning to turn it over.
Cynthia crossed her white hands and looked down, a shadow flitting across her mobile face.
"He is dead," she said softly. "He was a very kind old friend. He lodged in the house where I am lodging now. As long as he lived I always had somebody to advise me—somebody to depend on."
Her voice faltered a little. Some moisture was visible on the long dark eyelashes as they hung over the fresh young cheeks. Hubert thought again that he had never seen a woman half so beautiful. The touch of emotion softened her loveliness—made it more human, more appealing. His tone was less light, but more simply friendly, when he addressed her again.
"Was he a musician?"