"_Does she know--everything_?" he asked sternly.
Max shook his head.
"No. How could she? . . . _You_ must realise the impossibility of
that," he answered slowly.
"And you think it right to let her marry you in ignorance?"
Max hesitated. Then--
"She trusts me," he said at last.
"Pish! For how long? . . . When she sees daily under her eyes things
that she cannot explain, unaccountable things, how long will she remain
satisfied, I ask you? And then will begin unhappiness."
Errington stiffened.
"And what has our--supposititious--unhappiness to do with you, Signor
Baroni?" he asked haughtily.
"_Your_ unhappiness? Nothing. It is the price you must pay--your
inheritance. But hers? Everything. Tears, fretting, vexation--and
that beautiful voice, that perfect organ, may be impaired. Think!
Think what you are doing! Just for your own personal happiness you are
risking the voice of the century, the voice that will give pleasure to
tens of thousands--to millions. You are committing a crime against
Art."
Max smiled in spite of himself.
"Truly, _Maestro_, I had not thought of it like that," he admitted.
"But I think her faith in me will carry us through," he added
confidently.
"Never! Never! Women are not made like that."
"And perhaps, later on, if things go well, I shall be able to tell her
all."
"And much good that will do! _Diavolo_! When the time comes that
things go well--if it ever does come--"
"It will.
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