“Nothing was ever done,” Miss Brett asserted, “without a certain element of Faith. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. “You appear,” she said, without any sign of anger in her tone, and with unruffled composure, “to be a very impertinent person. We all love you dearly. You are more in my power than I am in yours. Wood, by whom it was formerly occupied. She went to a dramatic agent, and he turned out to be the one who had heard me sing in Paris. “Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. Life is morality—life is adventure. It is very bad.
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