CHAPTER XXII.
He may come at any time,” cried Clare, after breakfast the next morning. “But I shall be prepared for him. Why will men be so foolish? Why should he follow me to England in the month of November? Has he no regard for his voice? Where would he be if he failed to do the C natural some day? And yet he is foolish enough to run the risk of ruining his career simply for the sake of impressing me with his devotion!”
There seemed to Agnes to be a note ot hardness in the girl's way of speaking about her unhappy lover. Her intolerance of his devotion seemed a trifle unkind.
“Don't you think that he should have your sympathy, my dear?” she asked. “Do you fancy that he is to be blamed on account of the shortcomings in Signor Marini's system? Surely he is more to be pitied than blamed for falling in love with some one who refuses to respond to him?”
Clare made a little impatient movement, but in another second she became penitent, and hung her head.
“I suppose I should be sorry for Ciro,” she said, mournfully. “Yes, I think I do feel a little pity for him, in spite of his sentimental foolishness. Undoubtedly the maestro was to blame. I know that it was he who encouraged the susceptible Ciro in spite of all that I could say. But why should the foolish boy single me out for his adoration when he knew very well that there were four soprani and three contralti in the class who were ready to catch the handkerchief whenever it might please him to throw it? They all worshipped him. I could see it plainly when he got upon his upper register, with now and again a hideous falsetto D; and yet nothing would content him—he must lay his heart at my feet. Those were his words; don't fancy that they are mine.”
“Even so, you should not be too hard on him,” said Agnes. “Ah, my dear Clare, constancy and devotion in a man are not to be lightly considered. They may be part of a woman's nature—it seems to be taken for granted that they are part of a woman's nature; but they certainly are no part of a man's. That is why I am disposed to say a good word for our friend with that sweet tenor voice.”
“What am I to do?” cried Clare. “I must either tell him the truth—that I am quite indifferent to him; or make him believe what is untrue—that I am not without a secret tendresse for him. Now, surely I should be doing a great injustice to him—yes, and to the score of young women who worship him—if I were to encourage him to fancy that some day I might listen to his prayer.”
“There is no question, my Clare, as to what course you should pursue,” said Agnes. “All that I would urge upon you is not to hurt him more than is absolutely necessary.”
“You are thinking of the lethal chamber again,” said Clare. “Never mind; what you say is quite true, and I shall endeavor to treat him so gently that he will leave me feeling that he has been complimented rather than humiliated. After all, he means to pay to me the greatest compliment in his power, poor fellow.”