He could not help calling her Lina. He did not like the sound of her stage name, and "Miss Meredith" seemed so cold and formal in this moment when they had been parted so long. She did not seem to care. She looked at him now, and answered quietly:
"Yes, they were very kind—yet they never knew how much I needed love and kindness. They had only themselves to care for. The professor had always been wild over my voice. I was reckless, desperate. I allowed him to have his own way with me. He took me to Europe, procured musical instructors for me and in time I made my debut in opera."
"And from thenceforward it has been veni, vidi, vici," smiled Walter.
"Yes," she replied, with the calmness of indifference "I have been what the world calls very fortunate. I have won fame and gold—I have been loved and sought—I have had all the best the world has to give except"—here her low voice sank still lower—"except happiness."
"Poor child!" he said, involuntarily.
"Except happiness," she repeated, looking at him with her large, soft, mournful eyes. "That was impossible, you know."
An answering sadness came into Walter's blue eyes.
"Is happiness always to be an impossibility to you, Lina?" he asked.
"Always," she answered, with patient resignation.