"P.SS.—They are giving the second evening of the _Ring_ next Sunday. Herr von Arnim says that a great many people think it even grander than the Walküre and the _Götterdämmerung_ (Sunday fortnight) grandest of all. Hildegarde is going to both, if she is strong enough, and he says I _must_ come too. I told him that I knew father would strongly disapprove, and he said quite solemnly, and with a funny little German accent, that he thought an ’English Sunday the invention of the deevil,’ which made me laugh. I wonder if it would be wrong to go? I know what father would say, but somehow, when I come to think over it, I _can’t_ feel horrified at the idea. I can’t believe that it is wrong to listen to such grand, beautiful music—even on Sunday; as Herr von Arnim said, ’I am sure _der liebe Gott_ would rather see you good and happy enjoying the wonders He has made than bored and bad-tempered, wishing that Sunday was well over.’ What do you think, mother? Let me know soon. I will not do anything you do not like. "P.SSS.—I think we had better keep to our first arrangement that my letters should be quite private. You see, I tell you everything, and father might not always understand. "P.SSSS.—What a lot of postscripts! I am sure I must be very feminine, after all. I quite forgot to tell you that Fräulein Müller called the other day. She was very nervous and flustered, and treats the ’Frau Baronin’ as though she were a sort of deity to be propitiated at all costs. She also asked me to tea. I went, but I won’t go again if I can help it. I was never so near suffocating in my life. All the windows were double and had not been opened, I should imagine, since August, so that the August air was unpleasantly intermingled with the fumes of a furiously energetic stove, against which I had the honour of sitting for four mortal hours. But she was so friendly and kind that it seems horrid to complain, only—Heaven preserve me from being poor and living in a German flat!" Mrs. Ingestre read the letter carefully. She then tore it up and answered the same day: "As regards your question—do what your conscience tells you, Nora. You are old enough to judge, and I have perfect confidence in you. Be true and good, and I too think that God will not blame you if you rule your life according to the opinions He has given you rather than the arbitrary laws which we have made. Do what seems honestly right to you and you cannot do wrong—at least, not in His sight." This letter was shown to the Rev. John, her husband, but of the scene that followed, where righteous indignation and quiet resolve fought out a bitter struggle, Nora heard nothing. She only knew that the letter had been safely posted, and that once again her mother had forced open the doors of liberty. *CHAPTER VII* *A DUET* "Meine Herrn, to the Moltke of the future, the pride of the regiment, _er lebe—hoch—hoch—hoch_!"