she had been able to add certain final touches to the concerto
uninterrupted, and after dinner she proposed to carry him off to the
West Parlour and play it to him. There would be only their two selves,
alone together--for she had no intention of inviting Lady Gertrude and
Isobel to attend this first performance.

She was nervously excited at the prospect, and when she heard the
distant sound of a horseman trotting up the drive she jumped up and ran
to the window, peering out into the dusk. It was Roger, and as horse
and rider swung past the window she drew back suddenly into the
fire-lit shadows of the room, letting the short window-curtains fall
together.

Five minutes later she heard his footsteps as he came striding along
the corridor on to which the West Parlour opened. Then the door-handle
was turned with imperious eagerness, someone switched on the light, and
he came in--splashed with mud, his face red from the lash of the wind,
his hair beaded with moisture from the misty air. He looked just what
he was--a typical big sporting Englishman--as he tramped into the room
and made his way to the warmth of the blazing log fire.

Nan looked up and threw him a little smile of greeting.

"Hullo, darling, there you are!" He stooped and kissed her, and she
forced herself to sit quiet and unshrinking while his lips sought and
found her own.

"Have you had a good day?" she asked.

"Topping. Best run of the season. We found at once and went right
away." And he launched out into an enthusiastic description of the
day's sport.

Nan listened patiently. She wasn't in the least interested, really,
but she had been trying very hard latterly not to let Roger pay for
what had been her own blunder--not to let him pay even in the small
things of daily life. So she feigned an interest she was far from
feeling and discussed the day's hunting with snatches of melody from
the concerto running through her mind all the time.

The man and woman offered a curious contrast as they talked; he, big,
virile, muddied with his day in the saddle, an aroma of mingled damp
and leather exuding from his clothes as they steamed in front of the
fire--she, slim, silken-clad, delicately wrought by nature and
over-finely strung by reason of the high-pitched artist's life she had
led.

Roger himself seemed suddenly struck by the contrast.

"By Jove!" he exclaimed, surveying her rather ruefully. "We're a
pretty fair example of beauty and