"What a perfect evening!" said Kathleen lazily. "Go in and get the guitar, Edgar, and sing me something."
Sing something! Edgar's teeth clenched at the thought.
"I've practised such a lot to-day, I'm no good," he replied.
"Why, I didn't hear you," she said.
"No. I took my trusty pitch-pipe down in the woods and scared the birds. I have some mercy on you and mother."
"What is your aim?" asked his sister. "What do you want to do? Concert work?"
"Yes, perhaps. Mazzini says I could teach right now if I wanted to."
"Teach?" repeated Kathleen, trying to speak respectfully, but smiling at the man in the moon, who grinned back as if he understood.
"Of course, there's no necessity for that, so I shall simply prepare myself for public work; recitals; possibly go abroad for the prestige of study over there. Not that I need it but the name goes a long way, and if I should go into opera it is best to begin there."