Tristrem gazed at her in a manner that would have mollified a tigress. "I was not bored. I had never heard anyone sing before."
"Yet your friend, Mr. Weldon, tells me that you are very fond of music."
"That is exactly what I mean."
At this speech of his she looked at him, musingly. "I wish I deserved that," she said.
Tristrem began again with new courage. "It is like anything else, I fancy. I doubt if anyone, ignorant of difficulties overcome, ever appreciates a masterpiece. A sonnet, if perfect, is only perfect to a sonneteer. The gallery may applaud a drama, it is the playwright who judges it at its worth. It is the sculptor that appreciates a Canova——"
They had reached the corner where the barrel-organ was in ambush. A woman dragging a child with Italy and dirt in its face followed them, her hand outstretched. Tristrem had an artful way of being rid of a beggar, and after the fumble of a moment he gave her some coin.
"—And the artist who appreciates rags," added Miss Raritan.
"Perhaps. I am not fond of rags myself, but I have often caught myself envying the simplicity which they sometimes conceal. That woman, now, she may be as pleased with my little gift as I am to be walking with you."
"I thought it was my voice you liked," Miss Raritan answered, demurely.
Tristrem experienced a mental start. A suspicion entered his mind which he chased indignantly. There was about the girl an aroma that was incompatible with coquetry.