"Well, then, what is all this fuss about?" demanded Richard rudely. "Nothing is Eleanor's fault! Nothing can make any difference in my feeling for her! When I am able I mean to marry her." "Richard!" "Well?" Dr. Lister described briefly the consequences of such an alliance. His remarks were made to fill time, to give Richard an opportunity to get hold of himself. Richard clasped and unclasped his hands, fitting his fingers neatly together. He did not lift his eyes, he wished only to get away, but he did not feel certain of his power of locomotion. "Mother had no right to let this go on!" "She didn't dream of such a thing. Be fair!" "Not dream of it! Did she suppose I could associate day after day with a girl like Eleanor and not love her?" "She didn't know you associated with her. I hope you have come to no sort of understanding." Richard answered only with a setting of his jaw. What he had done was his business. They should pry no farther; his heart was bleeding, but they should not count the drops. As soon as he felt certain of his knees he would fly. Dr. Lister gave his body a little comfort against the back of his chair. "I have no objection to your following music as a career, Richard, and I am sure we can win your mother over also. We want to do what is best for you--that is our chief desire in life. We will give you every possible opportunity here and abroad. What did Mr. Faversham say about your playing?" Richard had now got to his feet. It seemed to him that he kept on and on rising. Insult had been added to injury. "I have nothing to tell," said he with dignity, and so got himself away. CHAPTER XVII MRS. LISTER TAKES TO HER BED Surely there could have been no more remarkable coincidence than this proximity in "Willard's Magazine" of the work of Basil Everman and of Eleanor Bent. It seemed to Mrs. Lister that their connection must be blazoned thereby to the world, that the two compositions must bear on their faces evidence which the least discerning could interpret. Things done in secret could not be hidden; all her efforts of years to save the name of Basil from disgrace were of no avail before the power of God's law. She had given one painful, fascinated reading to the "Scarlet Letter"; to her, now, Basil and his companion were approaching the scaffold in the market-place for their final acknowledgment of common guilt. After a few days she rose, white and trembling, from her bed and went once more into a suspicious world. She had faced it for twenty years, she would face it again.