On Saturday morning, when Holm went up into the drawing-room, he found the pair very subdued. William was in the smoking-room, which was in darkness, looking out of the window, and Marie lay on the sofa in tears.
On the table lay an open letter from Mrs. Rantzau, as follows:
"My dear Miss Holm,—I have for the past week carefully and conscientiously tested your voice in order to give my verdict without hesitation as to your chances of making a career as a singer.
"I regret that as a result I can only advise you most seriously to relinquish the idea.
"You have certainly a pleasing voice, but its compass is only slight, and would never be sufficiently powerful for concert work.
"By all means continue your training, you will find it worth while, and your voice might be a source of pleasure to your home circle and friends. I am sure you will be a thousand times happier in that way than in entering upon a career which could only lead to disappointment.—Sincerely yours,
"Emilie Rantzau."
Holm read the letter, and went over to Marie.
"Don't cry, my child; you shall go to Paris all right, but we'll go together this time, for a holiday."
"Oh, I'm so miserable—hu, hu!"