One would have guessed Kenneth Hastings' age to be about thirty. He was tall, rather slender and sinewy, with broad, strong shoulders. He had a fine head, proudly poised, and an intelligent, though stern face. He was not a handsome man; there was, however, an air of distinction about him, and he had a voice of rare quality, rich and musical. Esther Bright had noticed this.
The visitor began to talk to her. His power to draw other people out and make them shine was a fine art with him. His words were like a spark to tinder. Esther's mind kindled. She grew brilliant, and said things with a freshness and sparkle that fascinated everyone. And Kenneth Hastings listened with deepening interest.
His call had been prolonged beyond his usual hour for leave-taking, when John Clayton brought Esther's guitar, that happened to be in the room, and begged her for a song. She blushed and hesitated.
"Do sing," urged the guest.
"I am not a trained musician," she protested.
But her host assured his friend that she surely could sing. Then all clamored for a song.
Esther sat thrumming the strings.
"What shall I sing?"
"'Who is Sylvia,'" suggested Mrs. Clayton.
This she sang in a full, sweet voice. Her tone was true.