“Very good, very good, indeed,” said Reginald, playing chords that would waft a hardened criminal to heaven. “Make the notes round. Don’t be afraid. Linger over them, breathe them like a perfume.” How pretty she looked, standing there in her white frock, her little blonde head tilted, showing her milky throat. “Do you ever practise before a glass?” asked Reginald. “You ought to, you know; it makes the lips more flexible. Come over here.” They went over to the mirror and stood side by side. “Now sing—moo-e-koo-e-oo-e-a!” But she broke down, and blushed more brightly than ever. “Oh,” she cried, “I can’t. It makes me feel so silly. It makes me want to laugh. I do look so absurd!” “No, you don’t. Don’t be afraid,” said Reginald, but laughed, too, very kindly. “Now, try again!” The lesson simply flew, and Betty Brittle quite got over her shyness. “When can I come again?” she asked, tying the music up again in the blue silk case. “I want to take as many lessons as I can just now. Oh, Mr. Peacock, I _do_ enjoy them so much. May I come the day after to-morrow?” “Dear lady, I shall be only too charmed,” said Reginald, bowing her out. Glorious girl! And when they had stood in front of the mirror, her white sleeve had just touched his black one. He could feel—yes, he could actually feel a warm glowing spot, and he stroked it. She loved her lessons. His wife came in. “Reginald, can you let me have some money? I must pay the dairy. And will you be in for dinner to-night?” “Yes, you know I’m singing at Lord Timbuck’s at half-past nine. Can you make me some clear soup, with an egg in it?” “Yes. And the money, Reginald. It’s eight and sixpence.” “Surely that’s very heavy—isn’t it?” “No, it’s just what it ought to be. And Adrian must have milk.” There she was—off again. Now she was standing up for Adrian against him. “I have not the slightest desire to deny my child a proper amount of milk,” said he. “Here is ten shillings.” The door-bell rang. He went to the door. “Oh,” said the Countess Wilkowska, “the stairs. I have not a breath.” And she put her hand over her heart as she followed him into the music-room. She was all in black, with a little black hat with a floating veil—violets in her bosom. “Do not make me sing exercises, to-day,” she cried, throwing out her hands in her delightful foreign way. “No, to-day, I want only to sing songs. . . . And may I take off my violets? They fade so soon.” “They fade so soon—they fade so soon,” played Reginald on the piano. “May I put them here?” asked the Countess, dropping them in a little vase that stood in front of one of Reginald’s photographs. “Dear lady, I should be only too charmed!” She began to sing, and all was well until she came to the phrase: “You love me. Yes, I _know_ you love me!” Down dropped his hands from the keyboard, he wheeled round, facing her.