ively, she moved in the opposite direction,
towards the quieter portion of the house in which stood the music-room.

The door of the room was closed when she reached it, and no sound came
to her from within. For a space she stood hesitating outside; then the
distant murmur of talk and laughter roused her to action. Her hesitancy
fled before her distaste for companionship. She raised her hand and
noiselessly opened the door.

To enter the music-room was to enter a region of romance. For, as the
card-room upstairs suggested the world and the things of the world,
this room seemed to embrace all the repose, all the dignity, all the
peace that such places as Tuffnell gather unto themselves with the
passage of time. It was a long, low-ceiled room with wainscoted walls
and a polished oak floor; and the first object that met the visitor's
eye, was an old harpsichord, mutely eloquent of bygone days; for, with
rare good taste, Lady Diana had hidden her piano behind a tapestry
screen, worked many centuries ago by another lady of the house. Even on
this night of festivity, the place retained its peculiar quiet; only
half a dozen candles burned in the sconces that hung upon the walls;
and the scent of lavender and dried rose-leaves lingered upon the air.

It seemed what it was--a room in which, for numberless generations,
women of refinement had made music, read poetry or sung songs, while
they wove about them the indescribable atmosphere of home.

And into this room Clodagh stepped, her heart burning, her mind
distressed, pained, and hurt.

For an instant she paused upon the threshold, overwhelmed by the
contrast between the aloofness, the graceful repose of the place, and
tumult of her own thoughts; then, yielding to the spirit of peace, she
closed the door resolutely and went forward into the room.

But at sound of the closing door, at sound of her dress upon the
polished floor, an answering sound came from behind the tapestry
screen--the noise of a chair being quietly pushed back--of some one
rising to his feet.

In sudden consternation, she stopped. For one instant she glanced
behind her, contemplating flight; the next, a faint exclamation of
surprise--the merest audible breath-escaped her; and her figure became
motionless.

The occupant of the room came quietly round the screen; and in the
uncertain light of the candles she recognised Gore.

The position was unusual; the moment was unusual. For the first time
since