"Of course you don't," cried Lady Joan, cheerfully, "you have no cause to see. _I_ don't see the full advantages of married life, for instance. But I am really going to be serious now, so don't interrupt. In the first place, I am not going to be philanthropic in the country; that only means being hopelessly under the thumb of one's rector, or hopelessly at variance with him; besides, it is so mortally dull, and--I don't mean to be dull just now. So I am going up to Pont Street in October, and I shall organize a regular philanthropic campaign. Oh, I am going to have a fine time! I shall sing for concerts in the East End, I shall paint match-boxes and gridirons and send them to fancy fairs, I shall play with the children in the hospitals, and teach the children of Whitechapel--thank Heaven! no amount of philanthropy can ever spoil the children--I shall even give sumptuous receptions, at which we shall discuss the evils of the sweating-system and the possibility of distributing certain portions of bread and soup to the deserving poor during the cold weather. Who knows that I may not speak on a platform before long? There is always the bearing-rein to fall back upon, if all the others fail; or the prevention of cruelty to birds, now that wearing feathers is out of fashion; or compulsory vaccination, or hygiene and rational dress and other horrors which are so excellent for the poor. Think of my reputation, Digby! It will be so assured that even Mrs. Reginald Routh will not dare to cast a stone at me, and I shall be able to say just what I choose about _anybody_. Why, philanthropy, properly managed, is as telling as music! Won't it be glorious fun, Digby? Hey-day, what a noise I am making!" He got up and stirred the logs in the low grate with his foot. She was lying on the sofa, looking at him. "Well, have you nothing to say to my beautiful idea?" she asked presently. The musician gulped at something in his throat. "It is surprising," he began, with an attempt at his old impressive manner, "how difficult it is to make ourselves understood, especially in our most intimate relations." "What are you talking about?" said Lady Joan. "I mean," went on the musician, desperately, "that I don't know how to tell you all that is in my mind, dear. Perhaps it is best left unsaid. I don't know; but--when you ask me what I think of it, I can only feel that it is all sad, dreadfully sad. I'm afraid I have not made it very clear, have I?" She moved her feet, and he came and sat down on the end of the sofa. "Tell me what it is that is sad," she asked, shading her eyes with her hand. "What you have been saying, that there isn't anybody," he said, and boldly moved the hand, and held it fast, and looked into her eyes. "No more there is,--except you," she answered recklessly, and looked back at him for a moment.