't do, I'm
afraid. I daren't try him. I'm never quite clear how much he sees and
understands, nor what he would do. And Gordon? No." There was another
reverie. Finally, he arose, knocked the ashes out of his pipe and
stretched himself once more: "I've got to depend on myself, it seems to
me. I must set my wits to work and astonish them all. But oh, if yawning
were but a lucrative employment, how easily I could make money and be
quit of the whole affair!"

Bertie took a great interest in his personal appearance, and was frank
and unaffected in his consciousness of his good looks. He caught a
glimpse of his reflection in the bottle-green mirror, and stopped short
in considerable anxiety. "Brain-work and these late hours don't suit
me," he said. "Good Heavens! I look quite careworn. Well, it may pass
for the effect of a gradually breaking heart: why not?"

A glance at his watch roused him to sudden activity. He carefully burnt
every scrap of his original manuscript, feeling sure that Lydia would
read his letter if she had the chance. He looked leniently on this
little weakness of hers. "Very happy to afford you what little amusement
I can in the general way," he soliloquized as he directed an envelope,
"but I really can't allow you to read this letter, Lydia my dear."
Apparently, he was in a distrustful mood, for, after hesitating a
moment, he got some wax and sealed it with a ring he wore. Then, putting
it carefully in his pocket, he tossed a few sheets of blotted
music-paper on the table, left his writing-case wide open, took his hat
and a roll of music, and went out in the direction of St. Sylvester's,
trying to work out his problem as he walked. He was not, however, so
deep in thought that he had no eyes for the passers-by, and his
attention was suddenly attracted by a servant-girl dawdling along the
opposite pavement. He watched her keenly, but furtively, as if to make
quite sure, and when she turned down a side street he followed, and
speedily overtook her.

"This is lucky!" he ejaculated. "I didn't expect to see you, Susan. What
are you doing here?"

She was a slight, plain girl, with a fairly intelligent face whose
expression was doubtful. Sometimes it showed a willingness to please,
oftener it was sullen, now and then merely thoughtful. Just at this
moment, as she looked up at the young organist, it was crafty and
greedy. "I'm taking a note," she said. "Miss Crawford's always a-sending
me with notes or someth