e three
were seated in the drawing-room after dinner, and Sir Elphinstone
beginning to grow impatient for his game of piquet. On the hearth-rug
before the fire were stretched Godolphus and three of Miss Sally's prize
setters; but Godolphus had the warmest corner, and dozed there
stertorously.

The book chanced to be Gautier's _Emaux et Camees_, and Tilda to open it
at the _Carnaval de Venise_--

"Il est un vieil air populaire
Par tous les violons racle,
Aux abois de chiens en colere
Par tous les orgues nasille."

She read the first verse with a pure clear accent and paused, with a
glance first at the hearth-rug, then at Sir Elphinstone in his chair.
Perhaps the sight of him stirred a small flame of defiance. At any rate
she closed the book, went straight to the piano, and recklessly rattled
out the old tune, at once so silly and haunting. Had she not heard it a
thousand times in the old circus days?

Her eyes were on the keyboard. Hardly daring to lift them, she followed
up the air with a wild variation and dropped back upon it again--not
upon the air pure and simple, but upon the air as it might be rendered
by a two-thirds-intoxicated coachful of circus bandsmen. The first
half-a-dozen bars tickled Miss Sally in the midriff, so that she laughed
aloud. But the laugh ended upon a sharp exclamation, and Tilda, still
jangling, looked up as Sir Elphinstone chimed in with a "What the
devil!" and started from his chair.

'Dolph was the cause of it. 'Dolph at the first notes had lifted his
head, unobserved. Then slowly raising himself on his rheumatic
fore-legs, the old dog heaved erect and waddled towards the piano.
Even so no one paid any heed to him until, halting a foot or so from the
hem of Tilda's skirt, he abased his head to the carpet while his
hind-legs strained in a grotesque effort to pitch his body over in a
somersault.

It was at this that Sir Elphinstone had exclaimed. Tilda, glancing down
sideways across her shoulder, saw and checked a laugh. She understood.
She let her fingers rest on a crashing chord, and rose from the
music-stool as the dog rolled over on his flank.

"'Dolph! My poor old darling!"

She knelt to him, stretching out her arms. The candlelight fell on
them, and on the sheen of her evening frock, and on the small dark curls
clustering on the nape of her bowed neck; and by the same light 'Dolph
lifted his head and gazed up at her. That look endured for fiv