"My dear," he said, "we want you at home." And therewith he considered he had put the case both concisely and gently. But Nora continued to look at him, and he grew irritated because she did not seem able to understand. "Surely you can see that—that there are certain things for which we have neither the time nor the money?" he said, drumming on the table with his thin fingers. A deep wave of colour mounted Nora Ingestre’s cheeks. She did not speak, however, until it had died away again, leaving her unusually pale. "You mean—I must give up—everything?" she asked in a low voice. "If by ’everything’ you mean your musical studies—yes," her father returned impatiently. The next minute he relented, and, leaning forward, took her passive hand in his. "But surely it is not ’everything,’" he said. "Surely your home and your people are more to you than even this favourite pursuit? I know it is hard for you—it is indeed hard for us all; but if we kept our promise and sent you to London other things would have to pay for it—the dear old house, the garden, Miles’s career. You see how it is? You know there is nothing for your real good that I would withhold from you if I could help it, dear child." He waited, expecting her to throw herself into his arms in generous self-reproach at her own hesitation; but she said nothing, and there was a long, uncomfortable silence. "And then time will not hang heavy on your hands," he went on, with forced cheerfulness. "Your mother will need you and I shall need you—good little amanuensis that you are! Is it not something to you that we all need you so much?" "Yes," she said. The monosyllable encouraged him, though it would have encouraged no one else. "And, of course, in between whiles you will be able to keep up your music," he added, patting her hand. This time there was not even a monosyllable to reassure him. Nora Ingestre stood motionless at her father’s side, her eyes fixed straight ahead, her fine, resolute features set, and almost expressionless. Miles swung impatiently on his heel. "I can’t think what you are making all this fuss about," he said. "You ought to be jolly glad that we can keep on the old place, and that you have such a decent home. I know lots of girls who would give their eyes to be in your shoes." "Have I been making a fuss?" She spoke perfectly quietly, without changing her position, but her question seemed to cause Miles fresh annoyance. "I call it a fuss to stand there and say nothing," he said, with sound masculine logic. "And anyhow—what does it matter whether you can tinkle a few tunes on the old tin-kettle or not?" "That is something you do not understand," she blazed out. It was as though he had unwittingly set fire to some hidden powder-mine in her character. She was breathing quickly and brokenly, and every line in her face betrayed a painfully repressed feeling which threatened to break out into passionate expression.