ry long time, too. She was fond of her, but it was not Barbara whom
Michael wanted. She turned her attention to the girl again.

"My husband's away," she said, confidentially; "he is very busy down at
Ashbridge, and I daresay he won't find time to come up to town for many
weeks yet. But, you know, Michael and I do very well without him,
very well, indeed, and it would never do to take him away from his
duties--would it, Michael?"

Here was a shoal to be avoided.

"No, you mustn't think of tempting him to come up to town," said
Michael. "Give me some tea for Aunt Barbara."

This answer entranced Lady Ashbridge; she had to nudge Michael several
times to show that she understood the brilliance of it, and put lump
after lump of sugar into Barbara's cup in her rapt appreciation of it.
But very soon she turned to Sylvia again.

"And your brother is a friend of Michael's, too, isn't he?" she said.
"Some day perhaps he will come to see me. We don't see many people,
Michael and I, for we find ourselves very well content alone. But
perhaps some day he will come and play his concert over again to us; and
then, perhaps, if you ask me, I will sing to you. I used to sing a great
deal when I was younger. Michael--where has Michael gone?"

Michael had just left the room to bring some cigarettes in from next
door, and Lady Ashbridge ran after him, calling him. She found him in
the hall, and brought him back triumphantly.

"Now we will all sit and talk for a long time," she said. "You one side
of me, Miss Falbe, and Michael the other. Or would you be so kind as to
sing for us? Michael will play for you, and would it annoy you if I came
and turned over the pages? It would give me a great deal of pleasure to
turn over for you, if you will just nod each time when you are ready."

Sylvia got up.

"Why, of course," she said. "What have you got, Michael? I haven't
anything with me."

Michael found a volume of Schubert, and once again, as on the first time
he had seen her, she sang "Who is Sylvia?" while he played, and Lady
Ashbridge had her eyes fixed now on one and now on the other of them,
waiting for their nod to do her part; and then she wanted to sing
herself, and with some far-off remembrance of the airs and graces of
twenty-five years ago, she put her handkerchief and her rings on the
top of the piano, and, playing for herself, emitted faint treble sounds
which they knew to be "The Soldier's Farewell."

Then presently her n