od value for his money.

After dinner Joan sang once or twice, and Vane, from the depths of a
chair near the fire, watched her through half-closed eyes. His hostess
was placidly knitting and the old gentleman was openly and unashamedly
asleep. The girl had a small voice, but very sweet and pure; and,
after a while Vane rose and went over to the piano. With his elbow
resting on it he stood there looking down at her, and once, as their
eyes met, her voice faltered a little.

"Ah! when Love comes, his wings are swift,
His ways are full of quick surprise;
'Tis well for those who have the gift
To seize him even as he flies. . . ."

She sang the simple Indian love song with a sort of wistful tenderness,
and it seemed to the man watching her as if she was singing to herself
rather than to him. It was as the last note of the refrain trembled
and died away that Mr. Sutton awoke with a loud snort and looked round
guiltily. Quite satisfied that no one had observed his lapse, he got
up and strode over to the piano.

"Delightful, my dear, delightful," he said heartily. "My favourite
tune." The number of the old gentleman's favourite tunes heard under
similar circumstances was large.

"Come along, my boy," he went on, turning to Vane. "Pool or billiards,
and let's see if the old man can't show you a thing or two."

With an inward groan Vane professed himself delighted. "Perhaps Miss
Devereux will come and score for us," he murmured.

"Do, my love," said Mrs. Sutton. "And then I'll go to bed."

If Vane remembered little of dinner that evening, he remembered still
less about the game of billiards except that he was soundly beaten, to
Mr. Sutton's great delight, and that he laughed quite a lot over silly
little jokes. Every now and then he stood beside Joan at the scoring
board, and touched her arm or her hand; and once, when his host, intent
on some shot, had his back towards them, he bent very quickly and
kissed her on the lips. And he felt her quiver, and then grow rigid at
his touch.

He played execrably, and when he tried to pull himself together to get
the game done quicker, he played worse. If only the old man would go
to bed, or something, and leave them. . . . If only he could get a few
moments alone with Joan, just to kiss her, and take her in his arms.
But the old man showed no signs of doing anything of the sort. He did
not often get a game of billiards; he still less often beat anybody,