"Yes, it was her doing in the first place, but I suspect from what Edgar says that she is tired of him. He hasn't seen her often of late, and she sails for Europe anyway next week; and Edgar is so interested in his music that now it comes first. His teacher is so enthusiastic!"
"Of course he is!" observed Mr. Fabian cynically. "They're always enthusiastic over the voices of pupils whose pocketbooks will stand the strain."
"Edgar sang for me last night while you and mother were out. Father, it was a beautiful performance. It is the real thing. Of course, he was wrong—crazy, to go into such expense without asking you, for the lessons are frightfully dear; but if the boy were to amount to something in an artistic line, wouldn't it be worth the investment? You are discouraged by his lack of interest in business."
Mr. Fabian's chin sank dejectedly as he flicked the ash from his cigar into the receiver on the stand beside his chair.
"Discouraged by his inability," he said slowly; "discouraged by his lack of principle, by his vanity and conceit. I will give him board and lodging as long as he wishes to live with me; but—"
"Then, dear," interrupted Kathleen, her voice thrilling with the sympathy she felt, "try this one thing more. If the expense doesn't appall you—"
Mr. Fabian shook his head impatiently. "That would be nothing—as yet."
"Edgar can't study through the summer. His teacher is going to Italy. He would like to go with him—" the girl paused doubtfully.
Her father laughed. "I dare say. Edgar's European travel, however, is over until he is engaged to sing before the crowned heads."