ing time to the music all by itself; while Mrs.
Downey flushed and swelled with pride at the astonishing capabilities
of her piano. He did not notice either that, as Lucia played the
tender opening bars of the Sonata, Mr. Partridge shook off the slumber
that bound him at this hour; that, as she struck the thundering chords
that signal the presto Finale, he raised his head like an old
war-horse at the sound of the trumpet. He stared solemnly at Lucia as
she came forward followed by Rickman; then he rose from his own
consecrated chair, heavily but with a certain dignity suited to the
moral grandeur of the act, and made a gesture of abdication.

"I was a professional myself once," said he. "My instrument was the
flute."

There was no doubt about the spirit of Lucia's reception that night.
Perhaps the finest appreciation of connoisseurs had never touched her
more than did the praise of that simple audience. Rickman was the only
one who did not thank her. For when her playing was over he had turned
suddenly very cold, seized with a fierce shivering, the reaction from
the tense fever of his nerves; and it was with difficulty that he
controlled the chattering of his teeth. But before they parted for the
night he asked if he might "call" some afternoon; his tone pointing
the allusion to the arrangement that permitted this approach, "We
can't talk very well here, can we?" he said.

She answered by inviting him and Miss Walker to tea the next day. He
was conscious of a base inward exultation when he heard poor Flossie
say that she could only look in later for a little while. In October,
work was heavy at the Bank, and the Beaver seldom got home till after
tea-time. His conscience asked him sternly if he had reckoned on that
too?

When to-morrow came, Miss Hoots was busy also, and disappeared after
tea. He had certainly reckoned on that disappearance.

There was a moment of embarrassment on his part when he found himself
alone with Lucia in the room (his room) that he had made ready for
her. He had done his work so thoroughly well that the place looked as
if it had been ready for her since the beginning of time.

She was tired. He remembered how tired she used to be at Harmouth; and
he noticed with a pang how little it took to tire her now. She leaned
back in his chair, propped by the cushions he had chosen for her
(chosen with a distinct prevision of the beauty of the white face and
dark hair against that particular shade