“Do the days pass too slowly for you, then?” asked his mother, in a tone of sympathy. “It is not like you to wish away your time.” “The days pass too quickly for all I mean to do in them,” he replied. “It is only because I foresee trouble in the distance, mother dear. However, I won’t be a prophet of evil. Let me take a leaf out of Raie’s book, and put away dull care.” Lady Montella followed him out into the hall. “You will be back soon, I hope, dear?” she said. “I expect Miss Lorm during the evening.” “I will be back as soon as I can,” he returned; “but I may be detained at Downing Street, and—and I have promised to call at Grosvenor Square.” “To see Lady Patricia?” Her voice unconsciously hardened. “Yes; Lady Patricia and her father.” A tinge of colour came into his cheeks. His mother said no more, but kissing him lightly on the forehead, went to her room, and rang the bell for her maid. At dinner she listened to Raie’s light chatter with her thoughts elsewhere, and when the meal was at an end, asked the girl for music. Raie played and sang as well as most girls of her age, and having once started, was in no hurry to cease. She amused herself, and in a lesser degree her aunt, until the footman announced the advent of Miss Lorm. Then she put her music away in the rack, and rose to greet the guest. Zillah Lorm was a singer who owed her position in a great measure to Lady Montella’s liberality. She had been introduced to her ladyship’s notice some years ago as a young co-religionist who possessed an exceptional voice, but who lacked the means to ensure an adequate training; and as Lady Montella loved to interest herself in such cases, the necessary money was immediately forthcoming. Zillah went to the Royal College for three years, after which she studied in Rome and Paris. Then, through her patroness’s influence, she secured engagements to sing at homes and receptions. Now, at the age of five-and-twenty, she was one of the most popular vocalists in London. She entered the room with the graceful self-possession which betokened the artiste. Unusually tall, and with an inclination towards embonpoint, her evening-gown of clinging silk concealed, yet at the same time revealed the rounded curves of her figure. Her eyes, dark and luminous, wandered restlessly through the room, as though in quest of someone she desired to see; her face, as she shook hands with her patroness and Raie Emanuel, lighted up with a winning smile. “My son has had to go to Downing Street on account of the Premier’s death,” Lady Montella informed her, although there was no reason why she should apologise for his absence. “I hope he will return before you go.”