"I hope it is better than your heart." Evelyn's face grew quite still, as if it were frozen, and seeing the pain he had caused her he was moved to take her in his arms and forgive her straight away. He might have done so, but she turned, and passing her hand across her eyes she went to the harpsichord. She played one of the little Elizabethan songs, "John, come kiss me now." Then an old French song tempted her voice by its very appropriateness to the situation--"_Que vous me coûtez cher, mon coeur, pour vos plaisirs_." But there was a knot in her throat, she could not sing, she could hardly speak. She endeavoured to lead her father into conversation, hoping he might forget her conduct until it was too late for him to withdraw into resentment. She could see that the instrument she was playing on he had made himself. In some special intention it was filled with levers and stops, the use of which was not quite apparent to her; and she could see by the expression on his face that he was annoyed by her want of knowledge of the technicalities of the instrument. So she purposely exaggerated her ignorance. He fell into the trap and going to her he said, "You are not making use of the levers." "Oh, am I not?" she said innocently. "What is this instrument--a virginal or a harpsichord?" "It is a harpsichord, but the intonation is that of a virginal. I made it this winter. The volume of sound from the old harpsichord is not sufficient in a large theatre, that is why the harpsichord music in 'Don Juan' has to be played on the fiddles." He stopped speaking and she pressed him in vain to explain the instrument. She went on playing. "The levers," he said at last, "are above your knees. Raise your knees." She pretended not to understand. "Let me show you." He seated himself at the instrument. "You see the volume of sound I obtain, and all the while I do not alter the treble." "Yes, yes, and the sonority of the instrument is double that of the old harpsichord. It would be heard all over Covent Garden." She could see that the remark pleased him. "I'll sing 'Zerline' if you'll play it." "You couldn't sing 'Zerline,' it isn't in your voice." "You don't know what my voice is like." "Evelyn, I wonder how you can expect me to forgive you; I wonder how I can speak to you. Have you forgotten how you went away leaving me to bear the shame, the disgrace?" "I have come to beg forgiveness, not to excuse myself. But I wrote to you from Paris that I was going to live with Lady Duckle, and that you were to say that I had gone abroad to study singing." "I'm astonished, Evelyn, that you can speak so lightly." "I do not think lightly of my conduct, if you knew the miserable days it has cost me. Reproach me as you will about my neglect toward you, but as far as the world is concerned there has been no disgrace." "You would have gone all the same; you only thought of yourself. Brought up as you have been, a Catholic--"