But Miss Lorm was not the woman to spare him one small thrust. She sat down at the little piano—Patricia’s own piano—and playing a short prelude, glided into that song of Goring Thomas’s “A Summer Night.” Then her rich voice, subdued to a low tone of sweetness, sent forth its full notes to thrill her listener and fill the house with music: “‘_Have you forgotten, love, so soon That night, that lovely night in June?_’” She sang without effort, and almost as if her thoughts were elsewhere, but as the song proceeded, her voice gained in intensity. Lionel stood immovable, hating the sound of music in that house and under those conditions. The empty corridor beyond caught the echo and threw it back with a hollow and depressing sound. But she could sing—Heavens, how she could sing! Whatever soul she possessed seemed to be concentrated in her voice. “You are not in the humour for music, my friend?” she said, veering round on the music-stool when she had finished, to see no gaze of admiration, but only an unappreciative back. “It does sound strange in this great unfinished house, I admit. By the way, when will the workmen have finished? When will you come into residence here?” “Never.” He turned away from the window and faced her, with a set look in his eyes, then added, in explanation: “The house is a wilderness, an empty barn. It can never be a home—to me.” “No?” She glanced at him questioningly from under her thick lashes. “But I thought you took such pride in it. Lady Montella told me long ago that it was your hobby. And the expense—why, it must have cost a fortune. What will you do with it if you do not intend to live in it? Oh, it seems such a shame—such a magnificent house—!” “I shall sell it if I can,” he said, meeting the reproach in her eyes steadily. “I had hoped to spend many happy years here, but now— It is a mere white elephant to me. They can call it ‘Montella’s Disappointment’ if they like; I don’t care. I shall have this furniture removed as soon as I can; and I shall never come here again.” “But if she should come back?” “She will never come back; it is not possible for her ever to live in Palestine again. That dream is over, but of course the awakening is hard: and this”—he touched the silken hangings behind their cover—“this all seems part of it. I can’t realise....” He broke off suddenly, fearing he said too much. He had spoken incoherently, and with a sharpness which betokened deep feeling. Zillah’s features relaxed into a forced expression of sympathy. “Poor fellow!” she exclaimed softly. “You have suffered, and you are lonely. I can sympathise with you; for—although you would not think it—I am lonely too.” “Yes?” He looked up quickly, to encounter the radiance of her eyes.