“We will go there, Lydia,” he interrupted, and at once began to hum the gay little air that had so completely charmed him. “Try it again, Lyddy. You'll get it in no time.” After luncheon, like two happy children they rushed off to the concert, and it was not until they were on their way home at five o'clock that his enthusiasm began to wane. She was quick to detect the change. He became moody, preoccupied; his part of the conversation was kept up with an effort that lacked all of the spontaneity of his earlier and more engaging flights. They rode down town on the top of a Fifth Avenue stage, having it all to themselves. She found herself speculating on the change that had come over him, and soon lapsed into a reserve quite as pronounced as his own. By the time they were ready to get down at the corner above Brood's house there was no longer any pretence at conversation between them. The day's fire had burned out. Its glow had given way to the bleak, gray tone of dead coals. Lydia went far back in her calculations and attributed his mood to the promise she had exacted in regard to his attitude toward his father. It occurred to her that he was smarting under the restraint that promise involved. She realised now, more than ever before, that there could be no delay, no faltering on her part. She would have to see James Brood at once; go down on her knees to him. “I feel rather guilty, Freddy,” she said as they approached the house. “Mr Brood will think it strange that I should plead a headache and yet run off to a concert and enjoy myself when he is so eager to finish the journal--especially as he is to sail so soon. I ought to see him; don't you think so? Perhaps there is something I can do to-night that will make up for the lost time.” She was plainly nervous. “He'd work you to death if he thought it would serve his purpose,” said Frederic gloomily. And back of that sentence lay the thought that made it absolutely imperative for her to act without delay. “I will go in for a few minutes,” she said, at the foot of the steps. “Are you not coming, too?” He had stopped. “Not just now, Lyddy. I think I'll run up to Tom's flat and smoke a pipe with him. Thanks, old girl, for the happy day we've had. You don't mind if I leave you here?” Her heart gave a great throb of relief. It was best to have him out of the way for the time being. “No, indeed,” she said. “Do go and see Tom. I shan't be here long. We have had a glorious day, haven't we?” There was something wistful in her smile as she held out her hand to him. He searched her face with tired, yearning eyes. “We have thousands of them ahead of us, Lyddy--days that will be all our own, with nothing else in them but ourselves. I--I wish we could begin them to-morrow, after all.” A flush mounted to her cheek. “Good-bye, Freddy.” He seemed reluctant to release her hand; her hand was cold, but her eyes were shining with a glorious warmth.