“Then she died; and I was left with two infants to bring up, and a dreary waste of years before me to fill up as best I could. So you see that had I never met my wife, I might have made a career of some sort; at least, I should have been saved a considerable amount of heartache and pain.” “And love,” added the youth, secretly wondering that the prosaic and somewhat crusty exterior of the Earl should conceal the heart-feelings of an emotional being. “Is it not better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Tennyson says so. And there is no one who will ever profit by another’s experience in these affairs. So to return to my question. You will approve?” “Have you—ah—spoken to her yet?” “Not a word. I could not do so until I had obtained your consent. I—” He broke off abruptly at the sound of the _frou-frou_ of a woman’s skirt. The small door at the top of the spiral staircase opened, and a girl in a simple white dress stood on the threshold. “May I come in, father?” she asked; then noticed the visitor. “Mr. Montella! I did not know you were here.” She advanced with outstretched hand, her face lighting up with pleasure. The blackbirds flew down from their perch, twittering as though in greeting. The little turret-chamber seemed transformed by her presence: an air of constraint crept over the two men, and for the moment neither of them had anything to say. The Earl returned to the tank, and turned on the tap once more. The momentary emotion caused by the mention of his dead wife was now a thing of the past. “I am very busy, my dear,” he said, somewhat pointedly. “Very busy indeed. Perhaps you would like to entertain Mr. Montella below? This is my workroom, you know.” “Yes. I came up here because Mrs. Lowther has gone to bed with a headache, and I was feeling a wee bit lonesome.” She smiled. “Will you come down with me, Mr. Montella? I would like to hear what you think of my latest attempts at verse.” He rose with alacrity, and holding out his hand to the Earl, turned on him a questioning glance. Lord Torrens rewarded him with a look and gesture which implied approval. Then he continued washing his prints. Montella was foremost in descending the spiral staircase, in order to assist Lady Patricia down the final steps. Arrived at the base, they descended the grand staircase together, and made their way to the library, which was Lady Patricia’s favourite room. Here she was wont to spend many a long hour in silent communion with men and women long passed away; for books were her counsellors and friends, and supplied the companionship which, owing to her father’s idiosyncrasies, she was denied. Here, too, she wrote the lyrics and sonnets in which her poetic instinct found its outlet. From her earliest childhood she had possessed the happy gift of composing verse. She went to her desk and fetched some sheets of manuscript.