Frithiof glanced at the singer’s face. Apparently he had not yet reached those sublime heights where insults cease from troubling and slanders fail to sting. He was still young, and naturally had the disadvantages as well as the immense gains of a sensitive artistic temperament. A gleam of fierce anger swept over his face, and was quickly succeeded by a pained look that made Frithiof’s heart hot within him; in silence the Italian opened the door of the carriage, signed to Frithiof to get in, and they drove off together.
“No matter,” said Donati in a minute, speaking reflectively, and as if he were alone. “I do not sing for a gossiping public. I sing for Christ.”
“But that they should dare to say such a thing as that!” exclaimed Frithiof, growing more and more indignant as his companion’s serenity returned.
“For one’s self,” said Donati, “it is—well—not much; but for the sake of those belonging to one it certainly does carry a sting. But every one who serves the public in a public capacity is in the same boat. Statesmen, artists, authors, actors, all must endure this plague of tongues. And, after all, it merely affects one’s reputation, not one’s character. It doesn’t make one immoral to be considered immoral, and it doesn’t make you a thief to be considered dishonest. But now I want to hear about this accusation of Mr. Horner’s. When did it all happen?”
In the dim light Frithiof told his story; it was a relief to tell it to sympathetic ears; Donati’s faith in him seemed to fill him with new life, and though the strange events of that miserable Monday did not grow any clearer in the telling, yet somehow a rope began to dawn in his heart.
“It certainly is most unaccountable,” said Donati, as the carriage drew up before a pretty little villa in Avenue Road. He paused to speak to the coachman. “We shall want the carriage in time to go to the 9.40 train at Charing Cross, Wilson; good-night.”
“But if you start so early,” said Frithiof, “I had better not hinder you any longer.”
“You do not hinder me; I am very much interested. You must certainly come in to supper, and afterward I want to hear more about this. How unlucky it was that the five-pound note should have been changed that day by Sardoni!”
At this moment the door was opened; Frithiof caught a vision of a slim figure in a pale rose-colored tea gown, and the loveliest face he had ever seen was raised to kiss Donati as he entered.
“How nice and early you are!” exclaimed a fresh, merry voice. Then, catching sight of a stranger, and blushing a little, she added, “I fancied it was Jack and Domenica you were bringing back with you.”