“I suppose,” he said at last, wistfully, “she wouldn’t let you come down here sometimes in the evening and play something frivolous, something lively?” Chris hesitated. “I don’t know,” she said. “Of course, we would have her down here too,” he explained. “And when she felt that she couldn’t get on any longer without a dose of Bach, you might indulge her, you know.” Chris, who looked pleased at the prospect, suddenly thought of a difficulty. “But, Mr. Bradfield,” she suggested diffidently, “this music you have here, of course it’s very nice, very nice indeed, but it’s not quite the latest. ‘The Mabel Waltz’ and ‘Les Cloches du Monastère’ are not new, you know.” “We’ll soon set that right,” said Mr. Bradfield, as he looked at the clock and then at his watch. “I’ll wire up to some of the big music shops, and by to-morrow or the day after we’ll have all the latest things.” He disappeared with his usual nod, leaving Chris in a state of high excitement. She rushed upstairs to see whether her mother, who had forbidden her to visit her during her morning work in the housekeeper’s room, had come up yet. As she passed the door of the study it opened suddenly, and Mr. Bradfield appeared. He was much struck by the change in her appearance which had taken place in a few minutes since he had left her in the drawing-room. The restraint of his presence once removed, she had given herself up to the wildest excitement, and her face was aglow. She looked so pretty that Mr. Bradfield stared at her with fresh interest. She was trying to run away when he stopped her by saying: “Where are you going to in such a hurry?” “Upstairs to tell my mother about the music,” she answered shyly. Still he detained her, finding her much more attractive than his accounts. “Did you ever have a sweetheart?” he asked, after a little pause. Chris burst out laughing at this ridiculously ingenuous question. Mr. Bradfield repeated it, and this time she answered with delightful frankness. “Why, I have had a dozen.” It was his turn to be taken aback. “Oh!” he exclaimed, with new diffidence, “we must try to find you one here, then.” Chris shot at him one merry glance, and then looked demurely at the floor. “You needn’t trouble yourself to do that, Mr. Bradfield, thank you. I can find one for myself if I want one, I daresay.” And, refusing to be detained any longer, she went upstairs, meeting her mother in the corridor above. CHAPTER VII. A PORTRAIT. “Mother--mother, who was the idiot that said riches don’t bring happiness?” It was two days after the interview Chris had had with Mr. Bradfield in the drawing-room, and the new music had come. Mr. Bradfield, who had on several occasions during the past two days caught sight of Chris, but failed to get a word with her, had sent up a message to the effect that if Mrs. and Miss Abercarne would go down to the drawing-room, they would find something there which would interest one of them.