elen said.

"You know it's nicer without her."

"I didn't want you to tempt things," Helen explained.

"She's as superstitious as a savage," Rupert said. "Talk to her,
Zebedee, man of science."

"Yes, I will." His glance was humorous but not quite untroubled.

"When?" she said, with great willingness.

"After tea."

"We've finished, haven't we?" Miriam asked. "Daniel, be quick and drink
that. We're all waiting for you. And don't slop it on your waistcoat.
There's a good boy! Very nice. Come into the drawing-room and I'll play
to you. I might even sing. Ask Helen if you may get down."

"May I?" he asked, and went after Miriam.

The notes of the old piano tinkled through the hall. Miriam was playing
a waltz, lightly and gaily.

"I'll go and make Daniel dance with me," Rupert said.

"Don't tease him any more."

"It'll do him good, and I want Zebedee to have a chance of lecturing
you."

"It's not easy to lecture you," Zebedee said.

"Isn't it?"

Above their voices and the tinkling music there now came Daniel's
protest, Rupert's persuasions, and Miriam's laughter: then these all
died away and the waltz called out plaintively and with desire.

"She is making the piano cry," Helen said.

Zebedee did not speak, for he was listening: the whole house was
listening. No other sound came from the drawing-room, and Helen fancied
that Mr. Penderwell was standing on the stairs, held by the memory of
days when he had taken his lady by her tiny waist and felt the whiff of
her muslin skirts against him as they whirled. The children on the
landing were wide-eyed and hushed in their quiet play. The sounds grew
fainter; they faded away as though the ballroom had grown dark and
empty, and for a little space all the listeners seemed to be easing
themselves of sighs. Then Miriam's whistle, like a blackbird's, came
clearly. She did not know how well she had been playing.

Helen stood up. "I wonder if the horse has walked away. Go into the
drawing-room. I'll see."

"No. I'll come with you."

The music had subdued their voices and, because they had heard it
together, they seemed to be wrapped round by it in a world unknown to
anybody else. Quietly they went out of the house and found the horse,
only a few yards distant, with his feet tangled in the reins.

"You ought to have fastened him to the post," Helen said, and together
they led him back.

"Shall we take him out of the cart?"

"But I ought to go home."

"No,"