"You love your art very much then, Honoria?"
"More than I love life itself."
"And it would grieve you much, no doubt, to resign all idea of a public career—to abandon your dream of becoming a public singer?"
There was a pause, and then the girl answered, in a dreamy tone—
"I don't know. I have never thought of the public. I have never imagined the hour in which I should stand before a great crowd, as I have stood in the cruel streets, amongst all the noise and confusion, singing to people who cared so little to hear me. I have never thought of that—I love music for its own sake, and feel as much pleasure when I sing alone in my own room, as I could feel in the grandest opera-house that ever was built."
"And the applause, the admiration, the worship, which your beauty, as well as your voice, would win—does the idea of resigning such intoxicating incense give you no pain, Honoria?"
The girl shook her head sadly.
"You forget what I was when you rescued me from the pitiless stones of the market-place, or you would scarcely ask me such a question. I have confronted the public—not the brilliant throng of the opera-house, but the squalid crowd which gathers before the door of a gin-shop, to listen to a vagrant ballad-singer. I have sung at races, where the rich and the high-born were congregated, and have received their admiration. I know what it is worth, Sir Oswald. The same benefactor who throws a handful of half-pence, offers an insult with his donation."
Sir Oswald contemplated his protégée in silent admiration, and it was some moments before he continued the conversation.
"Will you walk with me in the garden?" he asked, presently; "that avenue of beeches is delightful, and—and I think I shall be better able to say what I wish there, than in this room. At any rate, I shall feel less afraid of interruption."