‘Yes, but I think you deserted us before then. Do you remember that summer when we were all together at Bonchurch, and the part songs which astonished our neighbours just as it was growing dark? I recollect you and I tried together that very duet for the first time with the old lodging-house piano.’ Frank remembered that evening well. ‘You sang better than you did to-night. You did not keep time: what were you dreaming about?’ ‘How hot the room is! Do you not feel it oppressive? Let us go into the conservatory for a minute.’ The door was behind them and they slipped in and sat down, just inside, and under the orange tree. ‘You must not be away so long again. Now mind, we have a musical evening this day fortnight. You will come? Promise; and we must sing that duet again, and sing it properly.’ He did not reply, but he stooped down, plucked a blood-red begonia, and gave it to her. ‘That is a pledge. It is very good of you.’ She tried to fasten it in her gown, underneath the locket, but she dropped a little black pin. He went down on his knees to find it; rose, and put the flower in its proper place himself, and his head nearly touched her neck, quite unnecessarily. ‘We had better go back now,’ she said, ‘but mind, I shall keep this flower for a fortnight and a day, and if you make any excuses I shall return it faded and withered.’ ‘Yes, I will come.’ ‘Good boy; no apologies like those you sent the last time. No bad throat. Play me false, and there will be a pretty rebuke for you—a dead flower.’ _Play me false_! It was as if there were some stoppage in a main artery to his brain. _Play me false_! It rang in his ears, and for a moment he saw nothing but the scene at the Hall with Miranda. Fortunately for him, somebody claimed Cecilia, and he slunk back into the greenhouse. One of Mr Palmer’s favourite ballads was _The Three Ravens_. Its pathos unfits it for an ordinary drawing-room, but as the music at Mr Palmer’s was not of the common kind, _The Three Ravens_ was put on the list for that night. ‘_She was dead herself ere evensong time_. _With a down_, _hey down_, _hey down_, _God send every gentleman_ _Such hawks_, _such hounds_, _and such a leman_. _With down_, _hey down_, _hey down_.’ Frank knew well the prayer of that melody, and, as he listened, he painted to himself, in the vividest colours, Madge in a mean room, in a mean lodging, and perhaps dying. The song ceased, and one for him stood next. He heard voices calling him, but he passed out into the garden and went down to the further end, hiding himself behind the shrubs. Presently the inquiry for him ceased, and he was relieved by hearing an instrumental piece begin.