To rule mankind is all I crave

And at my feet to see them curled,

For if you make the world your slave

You'll ne'er be slave unto the world.

Evidently Dr. Nestley had become friendly with his quondam enemy, for both gentlemen now seemed to be on the best of terms with one another. Either the doctor had succumbed to the wonderful personal fascinations of Beaumont, or the artist had convinced Nestley that he was wrong in regarding him in a hostile manner.

On recognizing Miss Challoner, the young physician came forward to greet her, while Beaumont remained in the background lost in admiration at the wonderful beauty of her face, which appealed strongly to his artistic nature.

"I didn't expect to find you here, Miss Challoner," said Nestley eagerly; "my friend and I heard the singing and came in to listen; by the way, will you permit me to introduce Mr. Beaumont?"

Una bowed a little coldly, for she remembered what Reginald had said about the artist, but, hearing his name mentioned, Beaumont came forward and was formally presented. In spite of her distrust, Una could not but admire the handsome, tired-looking face she beheld and was still further impressed by the peculiar timbre of his voice when he began to talk. Beaumont certainly possessed in no small degree that wonderful fascination of manner attributed to the ill-fated Stewarts of Scotland which atoned so much for their fickleness, treachery and ingratitude.

"It is Mr. Blake who is singing, I think," observed Basil idly, "he has a wonderful voice."

"Yes," answered Una with a pleased smile. "I have never heard a finer--not even in Germany."

"Ah! you have been in Germany, Miss Challoner?"

"For some years--I stayed at Munich."

"A charming city which affords great opportunities for studying art both in music and painting."

"Did you study either, Miss Challoner?" asked Nestley, who seemed rather annoyed at the impression Beaumont had made.

"A little of both," she answered. "I was educated in Munich, but I'm afraid my learning was rather desultory--I sing a little--paint a little--and do both badly."

"That would be impossible," said Nestley desirous of paying a compliment, but Una frowned at the remark.

"Don't, please," she said coldly, "I dislike insincerity."

Nestley reddened a little at the tone of her voice and the obvious rebuke, on seeing which Una held out her hand to him with a charming smile.

"You must not mind what I say, Dr. Nestley," she observed, bending forward, "I'm afraid I'm dreadfully rude."

"And wonderfully charming," thought Beaumont, who, however, kept his opinion to himself, warned by the fate of his friend.

The young doctor, meanwhile, had hastily assured Una that he did not mind her severity, in fact rather liked it, and would doubtless in all sincerity have committed himself again only that Blake commenced to sing "Come, Marguerite come," from Sullivan's "Martyr of Antioch," and they all listened attentively.

Cecilia played the graceful accompaniment of arpeggi lightly, while above this constant sweep of dissevered chords, rising and falling with the voice, the high, penetrating notes of the singer flowed smoothly onward and, as the organist played softly, the full purity of the voice could be heard with marvellous effect. Owing to want of training, Blake's voice lacked in a great measure the power to give a perfect rendering to the melody, but the richness and mellowness of his notes were undeniable.

When he had finished Beaumont's face betrayed the pleasure he felt, and Una, who was watching him closely, asked his opinion.

"A wonderful voice," he said critically, as the three walked up the aisle, "but of course it requires a great deal of cultivation."

"I think it's charming," interposed Nestley, eager to curry favour with Una by praising one whom she evidently regarded as a brother.

"Of course you would think so," replied Beaumont a little contemptuously, "because you know nothing about the subject; to an uncultivated ear Blake's voice sounds well because he has a wonderfully fine organ, but to a musician there is a crudeness of style, a want of colouring, and a lack of refinement which makes him regret that such a great natural gift is not trained to its full capabilities."

"But you're not a musician?" said Nestley, nettled at the superior tone adopted by his friend.

"No," answered Basil complacently, "but I have heard a great deal, and as most of my life has been passed among musicians I have picked up a general knowledge of the technicality of the art. Shakespeare never committed a murder, yet he wrote Macbeth and Hamlet. Balzac did not fall in love till somewhere about the forties, but, he wrote 'Modeste Mignon,' and 'La Lys dans la vallee,' before that age--one does not need to be an artist to possess the critical faculty."

By this time they had arrived at the chancel, and Reginald came forward to meet them, blushing a little with modesty on discovering three listeners instead of one.

"I must congratulate you on your voice once more," said Beaumont looking at him, "my advice is to go to London at once and study."

"London!" echoed Blake disbelievingly, "why not Italy?"

"A tradition only," replied the artist calmly, "because Italy is the land of song every singer thinks he or she must study there, but I assure you it's a mistake--London and Paris have as good teachers as Milan and Rome--I may say better, for everyone goes to the place where the largest income is to be made."

"How cynical," said Una playfully.

"And how true--this is not the golden age, Miss Challoner, but the age of gold--there is a vast difference between Arcady and Philistia, I assure you."

"I think I'll take your advice," observed Blake gaily, "perhaps I've got a fortune in my throat, who knows?&quo............