“But such talk must be uttered to a soul,” he phrased internally, and Emilia was denied what belonged to Cornelia.

Hitherto Emilia had refused to sing, and Madame Marini, faithful to her instructions, had never allowed her to be pressed to sing.  Emilia would brood over notes, thinking:  “I can take that; and that; and dwell on such and such a note for any length of time;” but she would not call up her voice; she would not look at her treasure.  It seemed more to her, untouched; and went on doubling its worth, until doubtless her idea of capacity greatly relieved her of the burden on her breast, and the reflection that she held a charm for all, and held it from all, flattered one who had been cruelly robbed.

On their way homeward, among the chrysanthemums in the long garden-walk, they met Tracy Runningbrook, between whose shouts of delight and Emilia’s reserve there was so marked a contrast that one would have deemed Tracy an offender in her sight.  She had said to him entreatingly, “Do not come,” when he volunteered to call on the Marinis in the evening; and she got away from him as quickly as she could, promising to be pleased if he called the day following.  Tracy flew leaping to one of the great houses where he was tame cat.  When Sir Purcell as they passed on spoke a contemptuous word of his soft habits and idleness, Emilia said:  “He is one of my true friends.”

“And why is he interdicted the visit this evening?”

“Because,” she answered, and grew pale, “he—­he does not care for music.  I wish I had not met him.”

She recollected how Tracy’s flaming head had sprung up before her—­he who had always prophesied that she would be famous for arts unknown to her, and not for song just when she was having a vision of triumph and caressing the idea of her imprisoned voice bursting its captivity, and soaring into its old heavens.

“He does not care for music!” interjected Sir Purcell, with something like a frown.  “I have nothing in common with him.  But that I might have known.  I can have nothing in common with a man who is not to be impressed by music.”

“I love him quite as well,” said Emilia.  “He is a quick friend.  I am always certain of him.”

“And I imagine also that you are quits with your quick friend,” added Sir Purcell.  “You do not care for verse, or he for voices!”

“Poetry?” said Emilia; “no, not much.  It seems like talking on tiptoe; like animals in cages, always going to one end and back again....”

“And making the same noise when they get at the end—­like the bears!” Sir Purcell slightly laughed.  “You don’t approve of the rhymes?”

“Yes, I like the rhymes; but when you use words—­I mean, if you are in earnest—­how can you count and have stops, and—­no, I do not care anything for poetry.”

Sir Purcell’s opinion of Emilia, though he liked her, was, that if a genius, she was an incomplete one; and his positive judgement (which I set down in phrase that would have startled him) ranked both her and Tracy as a pair of partial humbugs, entertaining enough.  They were both too real for him.