“And in the mean time,” said his lordship, “let us start harmoniously. Give us a little music, Fuller. Go on just as if we were not here.” “Ruth, my wench,” said Fuller, “fetch his lordship a chair, and bring another for Mr.-----” He hung upon the Mr., searching to recall the name. “Devil-a-care,” suggested Sennacherib. “De Blacquaire,” said the earl, correcting him. “Mr. Ferdinand de Blacquaire.” The girl had already moved away, and Ferdinand, with an air in which criticism melted slowly into approval, watched her through his eye-glass. The only young man in the quartette party, Reuben Gold, eyed Ferdinand with a look in which criticism hardened into disapproval, and, turning away, fluttered the edges of the music sheets before him with the tip of his bow. “Look here, lads,” said Fuller, “we'll have a slap at that there sonata of B. Thoven's, eh?” “Beethoven?” asked Ferdinand, with a little unnecessary stress upon the name to mark his pronunciation of it. “You play Beethoven? This is extremely interesting.” He spoke to the earl, who rubbed his hands and nodded. The young first-violin tossed his chestnut-colored mane on one side with a gesture of irritation. Ruth reappeared with a chair in each hand. They were old-fashioned and rather heavy, being built of solid oak, but she carried them lightly and gracefully. Ferdinand started forward and attempted to relieve her of her burden. At first she resisted, but he insisting upon the point she yielded. The young Ferdinand was less graceful than he had meant to be in the carriage of the chairs, and Ruth looked at Reuben with a smile so faint as scarcely to be perceptible. Reuben with knitted brows pored over his music, and the girl returned to her old place and her old attitude by the apple-tree. Ferdinand, having the placing of the chairs in his own hands, took up a position in which, without being obtrusively near, he was close enough to address Ruth if occasion should arise, as he was already fairly resolved it should. The three elders were most drolly provincial, to his mind, and their accent was positively barbarous to his ears. Reuben was less provincial to look at, but to Mr. De Blacquaire's critical eye the young man was evidently not a gentleman. He had not heard him speak as yet, but could well afford to make up his mind without that. Nobody but a boof could have employed Reuben's tailor or his shoemaker. As for the girl, she looked like a lily in a kitchen-garden, a flower among the coarse and commonplace things of every-day consumption. It would be a deadly pity, he thought, if she should have an accent like the rest. Her dress was perfectly refined and simple, and Ferdinand guessed pretty shrewdly that this was likely to be due to her own handiwork and fancy. “What a delightful, quaint old garden you have here, to be sure,” he said.