“No, no; that’s not good enough. You can do better than that,” cried Reginald ardently. “You must sing as if you were in love. Listen; let me try and show you.” And he sang. “Oh, yes, yes. I see what you mean,” stammered the little Countess. “May I try it again?” “Certainly. Do not be afraid. Let yourself go. Confess yourself. Make proud surrender!” he called above the music. And she sang. “Yes; better that time. But I still feel you are capable of more. Try it with me. There must be a kind of exultant defiance as well—don’t you feel?” And they sang together. Ah! now she was sure she understood. “May I try once again?” “You love me. Yes, I _know_ you love me.” The lesson was over before that phrase was quite perfect. The little foreign hands trembled as they put the music together. “And you are forgetting your violets,” said Reginald softly. “Yes, I think I will forget them,” said the Countess, biting her underlip. What fascinating ways these foreign women have! “And you will come to my house on Sunday and make music?” she asked. “Dear lady, I shall be only too charmed!” said Reginald. Weep ye no more, sad fountains Why need ye flow so fast? sang Miss Marian Morrow, but her eyes filled with tears and her chin trembled. “Don’t sing just now,” said Reginald. “Let me play it for you.” He played so softly. “Is there anything the matter?” asked Reginald. “You’re not quite happy this morning.” No, she wasn’t; she was awfully miserable. “You don’t care to tell me what it is?” It really was nothing particular. She had those moods sometimes when life seemed almost unbearable. “Ah, I know,” he said; “if I could only help!” “But you do; you do! Oh, if it were not for my lessons I don’t feel I could go on.” “Sit down in the arm-chair and smell the violets and let me sing to you. It will do you just as much good as a lesson.” Why weren’t all men like Mr. Peacock? “I wrote a poem after the concert last night—just about what I felt. Of course, it wasn’t _personal._ May I send it to you?” “Dear lady, I should be only too charmed!” By the end of the afternoon he was quite tired and lay down on a sofa to rest his voice before dressing. The door of his room was open. He could hear Adrian and his wife talking in the dining-room. “Do you know what that teapot reminds me of, Mummy? It reminds me of a little sitting-down kitten.” “Does it, Mr. Absurdity?” Reginald dozed. The telephone bell woke him. “Ænone Fell is speaking. Mr. Peacock, I have just heard that you are singing at Lord Timbuck’s to-night. Will you dine with me, and we can go on together afterwards?” And the words of his reply dropped like flowers down the telephone. “Dear lady, I should be only too charmed.” What a triumphant evening! The little dinner _tête-à-tête_ with Ænone Fell, the drive to Lord Timbuck’s in her white motor-car, when she thanked him again for the unforgettable joy. Triumph upon triumph! And Lord Timbuck’s champagne simply flowed.