That evening, just before Miss Gladys Bewlay's first song, a visiting card was handed to one of her brothers, with the statement that a gentleman desired the pleasure of a moment's interview on a matter of great importance.
"See here," said the gentleman, and it was none other than the susceptible American, "I'm just crazy about Miss Bewlay's singing. They tell me she's here to-night. Now I know it's a strange thing to ask, but I want to know if you can't just let me lean against a pillar somewhere at the back while she's singing, and then I'll go right away. It's my last chance for some time, you see. I go back to America to-morrow."
The brother, not a little impressed by his sister's magnetism, all unsuspected in a débutante, and imagining the American to have heard her at a lesson, said he saw no reason why this little scheme should not be carried out; and so the American entered and took up an obscure position; and in a short while Miss Bewlay ascended the platform and began to sing.
When she had finished the American approached one of the guests and begged to be told the name of the singer.
"Miss Bewlay," said the guest. "It's her first appearance to-night."
"Miss Bewlay," gasped the American. "Then there are two of them. You say this is her first appearance?"
"Yes."
"Then she's very young?"
"Only about twenty."
The American returned to his corner, and the second song began.