you wish; only decide." To decide was the
one effort Mrs. Saxelby could not make.

"You would have no objection to accept the
invitation, mamma?"

"I, my darling? Even if I had—but I have
not—for your sake I would accept it willingly.
Don't mind me."

"Then, mamma," said Mabel, abruptly, " we
will go."

CHAPTER VI. MISS O'BRIEN MAKES AN ODIOUS
COMPARISON.

THERE was a strange "combination" in the
musical world, said Lady Popham, against
Alfred Trescott. There had been from time to
time several such "combinations" to quench
the flame of genius when fanned by her
ladyship's jewelled hands. It was very singular.
"Almost," said Lady Popham, in moments
when cloud predominated in her April skies,
"almost as though one were pursued by a
Destiny. Like Å’dipus, and those kind of people,
you know."

Lady Popham had "lain in the lilies, and fed
on the roses of life;"and I think she found
some satisfaction in this idea of a stern Destiny
that pursued her. A stern Destiny that was
not too stern; that did not make her hungry nor
ragged, nor mad, nor drunken; neither moved
her to commit murder or forgery; nor even
took the shape of kleptomania, causing her to
hanker unlawfully after silk stockings on her
hosier's shop-counter. But a polite Destiny,
admissible into the best society, that just gave
a little artistic relief, and prevented her life
from being a mere Chinese picture without any
shadows at all.

She had invited all the most competent critics
of music to her house to hear Alfred play. She
had fêted these people, and courted them, and
flattered them, but without avail. Some of
them were soft, and some were stern in manner;
but in the main they agreed in their verdict
upon the young man's playing. Great charm,
wonderful tone, sweetness, purity, and
admirable intonation, but—it wouldn't quite do.

"Why not?" insisted my lady. "Why, why,
why not?"

Well, Mr. Trescott, had better have another
year's first-rate teaching, and, above all, another
year's hard work. There was unsteadiness in
his passage playing, occasional want of breadth
and finish in the style. It was very good. At
times, admirable. But, upon the whole, not
exactly up to the mark for one aspiring to the
position of a first-rate solo player. Lady
Popham must be aware that the standard was now
a very high one. His competitors would be
men of European fame, who had devoted their
lives to their art. Mr. Trescott had natural
abilities and gifts of an exceptionally high order.
He might do anything, if——, &c. &c. &c.

All this annoyed Lady Popham mightily. It
annoyed her for two reasons. Firstly, because,
being in her butterfly way a kindly, generous,
compassionate old woman, she felt for the
mortification thus inflicted on her protégé.

Secondly, it annoyed her because the chief
vanity and ambition of her life was to be
reckoned a high and competent judge of art and
artists. She had never before met with this
stiff-necked and open opposition to her own
expressed opinion. Her old friend, the Neapolitan
Maestro di Capella (who was so valuable
and confidential an ally of hers in her favourite
pursuit, that he might with justice have described
himself on his professional cards as "Purveyor
of Geniuses, by appointment, to Lady Popham"),
would never have thought of contradicting her
in this way. And he was a clever musician,
and a learned, and a profound, and, above all,
an Italian; which was in itself a diploma of
connoisseurship. Old Altalena always
pronounced miladi's taste perfect. And she
supposed he had a professional reputation to
maintain, as well as these Messieurs Brown, Jones,
and Robinson.

Lady Popham had never seen Altalena wrinkling
up his well-shaped snuffy old nose behind
her back, in contemptuous amusement at her
ignorance. And as to professional reputation—
why, all the virtuosi in Naples knew that miladi
was an English woman; and what artist could
be said to risk his professional reputation by
merely encouraging a baby's admiring delight
in its penny whistle?

But what was merely an annoyance to Lady
Popham, was to Alfred Trescott a serious
misfortune. His prospects of fame and money
seemed to fly before him like the mirage. It
was characteristic of this young man, that while
his practical knowledge and artistic instinct
confessed the justice of the critics' adverse
verdict, he hated them for pronouncing it, as
bitterly as though they had conspired to malign
him. He grew gloomy and discontented, and
betrayed that he was so, in his manner. Alfred's
was essentially a nature in which "familiarity
breeds contempt." And when once he had
become habituated to the manifestations of luxury
and wealth which surrounded his patroness, and
which at first had kept his insolence somewhat
in check, he began to show glimpses of the
native ferocity of his temper even to her.
During all the time that they had been in
London, Lady Popham's purse had supplied
Mr. Alfred Trescott very liberally with money
for his weekly expenses. He had no money of
his own, and his father's poor earnings barely
sufficed to feed and clothe himself and Corda.
Alfred had accepted all these benefits from
Lady Popham as loans to be repaid when the
golden opportunity should arrive of dazzling
the world with his talents, and receiving solid
coin of the realm in exchange for them. He
had artfully contrived to convince Lady Popham
that she had unsettled his life, torn him from
the enjoyment of a modest competence earned
by his own industry, and beguiled him with
ambitious dreams, the onus of fulfilling which
now rested with her. She began to be afraid
of Alfred Trescott—afraid of what he might
say to her. Frivolous and superficial as she
was, she began to know that there were dark