Was there pain or annoyance in her tone? Arnim could not be certain. The knowledge that she had seen him standing there was sufficiently disconcerting. When we are unobserved, we unconsciously drop the masks which the instinct of self-preservation forces us to assume in the presence even of our dearest, and our faces betray emotions or thoughts which we have, perhaps, not even acknowledged to ourselves. As he advanced into the room, Arnim wondered uncomfortably how much the invalid’s quick eyes had seen and if there was, indeed, anything in his looks or action which could have wounded her. "You must think my manners very bad," he said in English as he greeted Nora, "but I knew if I came in you would stop playing, and that would have disappointed me and annoyed Hildegarde. You see, I know my cousin’s little foibles, and one is that she does not like being interrupted in anything. Is that not so, Hildegarde?" "You are a privileged person," she answered with a gentle smile on her pale face. "Still, I am glad you let Nora—Miss Ingestre—finish. She plays well, don’t you think?" "Splendidly—considering," was the answer. Nora looked up. "Considering? That sounds a doubtful compliment." "I mean, English people as a rule have not much understanding for dramatic music." "Yes, they have!" Nora blazed out impulsively. "Have they?" Still seething with injured patriotism, she met the laughter in his eyes with defiance. Then her sense of humour got the better of her. "No, they haven’t," she admitted frankly. "There, now you are honest! Have you tried _Tristan_ for the first time?" Nora nodded. She had gone back to the piano and was turning over the leaves of the score with nervous fingers. For some reason which she never attempted to fathom, Wolff von Arnim’s entries into her life, seldom and fleeting as they had been hitherto, had always brought with them a subtle, indescribable change in herself and in her surroundings. There were times when she was almost afraid of him and welcomed his departure. Then, again, when he was gone she was sorry that she had been so foolish, and looked forward to their next meeting. "I have tried to read the first act before," she said, "but it is so hard. I can make so little out of it. I am sure it all sounds poor and confused compared to the real thing." "Your piano score is inadequate," he said, coming to her side. "The duet arrangement is much better. Hildegarde and I used to play it together for hours." Nora looked at him with wide-open eyes of wonder. "Can you play?" she asked, very much as though he had boasted of his flying abilities, so that he laughed with boyish amusement. "I play like a great many of us do," he said, "sufficiently well to amuse myself. I have a piano in my quarters which I ill-treat at regular intervals. Do you remember how angry you used to get because I thumped so?" He had turned to the girl lying on the sofa, but she avoided his frank gaze.