"Oh, musical! That is mild. I have been educated in the belief that a sojourn in Ireland renders one savage for the remainder of his days. I blush for my ignorance. If it is first-class music you want, go to hear Wynter sing. She does sing this evening, happily for you, and anything more delicious, both in face and voice, has not aroused London to madness for a considerable time. Go, hear her, but leave your heart at your hotel before going. The Grosvenor, is it, or the Langham? The Langham. Ah, I shall call to-morrow. By-bye, old man. Go and see Wynter, and you will be richly rewarded. She is tremendously lovely."
"I will," says Luttrell; and having dined and dressed himself, he goes and does it.
Feeling listless, and not in the slightest degree interested in the coming performance, he enters the concert room, to find himself decidedly late. Some one has evidently just finished singing, and the applause that followed the effort has not yet quite died away.
With all the air of a man who wonders vaguely within himself what in the world has brought him here, Luttrell makes his way to a vacant chair and seats himself beside an elderly, pleasant-faced man, too darkly-skinned and too bright-eyed to belong to this country.
"You are late,—late," says this stranger, in perfect English, and, with all the geniality of most foreigners, making room for him. "She has just sung."
"Has she?" Faintly amused. "Who?"
"Miss—Wynter. Ah! you have sustained a loss."
"I am unlucky," says Luttrell, feeling some slight disappointment,—very slight. Good singers can be heard again. "I came expressly to hear her. I have been told she sings well."
"Well—well!" Disdainfully. "Your informant was careful not to overstep the truth. It is marvelous—exquisite—her voice," says the Italian, with such unrepressed enthusiasm as makes Luttrell smile. "These antediluvian attachments," thinks he, "are always severe."
"You make me more regretful every minute," he says, politely. "I feel as though I had lost something."