"Are you not well, Philip?" she asked; and then before he could reply, "Why, what a delicious odour of violets! You dear thing, have you got some for me?"
But Mr. Tremain made no answer; he put out his hand and took the cup from her, saying as he did so: "Then you, too, perceive it, Esther; it is the odour of violets, is it not, and yet I have none for you."
"Of course it's violets," replied Mrs. Newbold, positively, "and of course you are hiding them from me. Ah, well, I don't mind, I dare say you are keeping them for some one," and she smiled a little fine smile of superiority and knowledge.
After a moment's pause Mr. Tremain asked another question, and in spite of his attempted carelessness, his voice had a ring of anxiety.
"Esther, who—who was singing, just now, when you came in, or a moment before?"
"Singing?" queried Mrs. Newbold. "Oh, no one; they are all far too busy discussing this evening's rehearsal; though, stay a moment—yes, I remember now, I did hear some one grinding out a melancholy ditty, as I came down the corridor. Of course, it was Mdlle. Lamien."
"Mdlle. Lamien?" echoed Philip.
"Yes," replied Esther, "she has a little, tiny room in this very wing, where she keeps a piano and some books; you might hear her here, it's just possible."
But Mr. Tremain was not heeding her. Once again he was overwhelmed and confused as the strange spell of this woman's personality crept over him. He could have sworn the voice was Patricia's, just as the face of his vision had been Patricia's! Was he always to be haunted by this strange dual resemblance—which was no resemblance—between the Patricia of his youth, and this incomprehensible, mysterious stranger?
If the voice was the voice of Mdlle. Lamien, why should it affect him so strongly, or why should it seem but the fitting adjunct to the face of his vision, since that vision wore the semblance of Patricia?