Presently she arose to go. No, she could not wait for Mrs Desmond's return. “It is charming here, Lydia,” she said, surveying the little sitting-room with eyes that sought the window again and again in furtive darts. “Frederic must bring me here often. We shall have cosy times here, we three. It is so convenient, too, for you, my dear. You have only to walk around the corner, and there you are--at your place of business, as the men would say.” Lydia was to continue as Brood's amanuensis. He would not listen to any other arrangement. “Oh, I do hope you will come, Mrs Brood!” cried the girl earnestly. “My piano will be here to-morrow, and you shall hear Frederic play. He is really wonderful.” “I'm the rankest duffer going, Yvonne,” broke in Frederic, but his eyes were alight with pleasure. “You play?” asked Mrs Brood, regarding him rather fixedly. “He disappears for hours at a time,” said Lydia, speaking for him, “and comes home humming fragments from--oh, but I am not supposed to tell! Forgive me, Frederic. Dear me! What have I done?” She was plainly distressed. “No harm in telling Yvonne,” said he, but uneasily. “You see, it's this way: father doesn't like the idea of my going in for music. He is really very much opposed to it. So I've been sort of stealing a march on him--going up to a chum's apartment and banging away to my heart's content. It's rather fun, too, doing it on the sly. Of course, if father heard of it he'd--he'd--well, he'd be nasty about it, that's all.” “Nasty?” “He got rid of our own piano a long time ago, just because he doesn't like music.” “But he does like music,” said Yvonne, her voice a little huskier than usual. “In Paris we attended the opera, the concerts. I am sure he likes music.” “I fancy it must have been my fault, then,” said Frederic wryly. “I was pretty bad at it in those days.” “He will not let you have a piano in the house?” “I should say not!” She gave them a queer little smile. “We shall see,” she said, and that was all. “I say, it would be great if you could get him to----” “I am sure he would like Frederic's music now, Mrs Brood,” Lydia broke in eagerly. “What do you play--what do you like best, Frederic?” inquired Yvonne. “Oh, those wonderful little Hungarian things most of all; the plaintive little melodies----” He stopped as she began to hum lightly the strains of one of Ziehrer's jaunty waltzes. “By Jove, how did you guess? Why, it's my favourite. I love it, Yvonne!” “You shall play it for me--to-morrow, Lydia?” “Yes. The piano will be here in the morning.” “But how did you guess----” “Never mind! I am a witch, _aïe?_ Come! I must be off now, Frederic. There are people coming to have tea with me.” As they descended in the elevator Frederic, unable to contain himself, burst out rapturously: “By Jove, Yvonne, it will be fun, coming over here every day or so for a little music, won't it? I can't tell you how happy I shall be.”