Max shook his head.
"No. How could she? . . . You must realise the impossibility of that," he answered slowly.
"And you think it right to let her marry you in ignorance?"
Max hesitated. Then—
"She trusts me," he said at last.
"Pish! For how long? . . . When she sees daily under her eyes things that she cannot explain, unaccountable things, how long will she remain satisfied, I ask you? And then will begin unhappiness."
Errington stiffened.
"And what has our—supposititious—unhappiness to do with you, Signor
Baroni?" he asked haughtily.
"Your unhappiness? Nothing. It is the price you must pay—your inheritance. But hers? Everything. Tears, fretting, vexation—and that beautiful voice, that perfect organ, may be impaired. Think! Think what you are doing! Just for your own personal happiness you are risking the voice of the century, the voice that will give pleasure to tens of thousands—to millions. You are committing a crime against Art."
Max smiled in spite of himself.