"'T'ain't that," said one of them, awkwardly. "It's because they're apt to neglect their 'omes if they come out of an afternoon or an evening like we do." "Not they!" said Mr. Brooke. "To come out now and then is to make them love their homes, man. They'll put more heart in to their work, if they have a little rest and enjoyment now and then, as you do. Besides--you've got hold of a wrong principle. The women are not your slaves and servants; they ought not to be. They are your companions, your helpers. The more they are in sympathy with you, the better they will help you. Don't keep your wives out of the brighter moments of your lives, else they will forget how to feel with you, and help you when darker moments come!" There was a pause; and then a man, with rather a sullen face--evidently one of the malcontents--said, with a growl, "Fine talk, gov'nor. It'll end in our wives leaving us, like they say yours done." There was an instant hiss and groan of disapproval. So marked, indeed, that the man rose to shoulder his way to the door. Evidently he was not a popular character. "We'll pay him out, if you like, sir," said a youth; and some of the older men half rose as if to execute the threat. "Sit down: let him alone," said Mr. Brooke, sharply. "He's a poor fool, and he knows it. Every man's a fool that does not reverence women. And if women would try to be worthy of that reverence, the world would be better than it is." He rose as he spoke, with apparent carelessness, but those who knew him best saw that the taunt had stung him. And as he moved, he caught Lesley's eye. He had not known that she was to be there; and by something in her expression--by her heightened color, perhaps, or her startled eye--he saw at once that she had heard the man's rude speech and his reply. He stopped short, grasped at his beard as his manner was, especially when he was perplexed or embarrassed; then crossed over towards her, laid his hand on her arm, and spoke in a tone of unusual tenderness. "_You_ here, my child?" Lesley thrilled all over with the novel pleasure of what seemed to her like commendation. But she could not answer suitably. "Mrs. Romaine brought me," she said. "Ah! Mrs. Romaine?"--in quite a different tone. "Very kind of Mrs. Romaine. By the bye, Maurice"--to Mr. Kenyon, who had just appeared upon the scene, and was looking with curiously anxious eyes at Lesley--"the music ought to begin now. Is Trent ready? And will Ethel recite something? That's all right--I suppose Miss Bellot will be here presently." And leaving Lesley without another glance, he went to the piano and opened it. The audience settled itself in its place, and gave a little sigh of expectation. Mr. Brooke's Sunday afternoon "recitals," from four to five, always gave great satisfaction. Oliver sang first, then Ethel recited something; then Mr. Brooke sang, and then Oliver played--he was a very useful young man in his way--and then there came a little pause.