Morn's music to thee is for evermore—
But what is for me, love, what is for me?”
The passionate cry was repeated with startling effect. But not until the last note had sounded did Clare spring from her seat at the piano. She stood in the centre of the room in the attitude of an eager listener. Her face was flushed, and her eyes were still tremulous with the tears that evermore rushed to them when singing that song. She listened, but no further note came from that mysterious voice. The night was silent.
The girl turned to Agnes; a little frown was on her face, but still it was roseate, and she gave a laugh.
“I did not think that he could possibly be so great a fool,” she said, as if communing with herself.
“A fool!” cried Agnes. “Is it possible that you know who it is that sang? I thought that I was dreaming when I first heard that voice; and then—but you know who it is?”
“He said he would follow me to England—to the world's end,” laughed Clare. “Oh, these Italians have got no idea of things—the serenade needs an Italian sky—warmth and moonlight and the scent of orange blossoms, and the nightingale among the pomegranates. The serenade is natural with such surroundings; but in England, toward the end of November—oh, the notion is only ridiculous! He will have a cold to-morrow that may ruin his career. His tenor is of an exceptional quality, the maestro said: it cannot stand any strain, to say nothing of the open-air on a November night. What a fool he is!”
“You have not yet told me what his name is,” said Agnes.
“What? Surely I told you all about Ciro Rodani?”
“Some weeks ago you mentioned the fact that you had a friend of that name, and that he had taken a part in an opera produced some time ago, and sent you a newspaper with an account of—of his success. You did not say that he was still in England.”