“I believe it comes to very much the same thing,” said Ada. “The new word has been coined principally to save respectability.” “A motive with which you have small sympathy?” “None whatever.” There was a silence between them. “You play?” Robert asked, Rhoda Meres having risen from the piano. “Only for my own amusement.” “Then certainly you play things which I should like to hear. Will you play me something that has a tune in it? I don’t mean to reflect upon Miss Meres’ playing; but my ear is in a rudimentary state. I should be very grateful if you would play something.” Ada seemed to harden her face against an intruding smile. She rose, however, and walked over to the piano. Mrs. Clarendon and Rhoda looked at her with undisguised surprise. Asquith noticed that her walk might have been graceful, had she not affected a sort of indifference in gait. She seated herself at the instrument and played an operatic air; it lasted about three minutes, then she ceased. Robert looked in expectation of her resuming her former seat, but she walked straight to the door and disappeared. Mrs. Clarendon and Rhoda Meres exchanged glances, and for an instant there was a rather awkward silence. Isabel found a subject, and talked with her wonted vivacity. Ada did not return. About half-past ten Rhoda began to make preparations for departure; she went to one of the windows, and held the blind aside a little to look out at the night. “Oh! what a moon!” she exclaimed. “Mrs. Clarendon, do let us just go out for a minute on to the lawn; the country is so wonderful at night.” Wrappers were at hand for the ladies, and the three went out together. The whole scope of visible heavens was pale with light; the blacker rose the circle of trees about Knights Well. The leaves made their weird whispering, each kind with its separate voice; no other sounds came from the sleeping earth. “We often hear the nightingale,” Isabel said, lowering her voice. “Perhaps it’s too early yet.” Then she added: “This is the hour of our poet’s inspiration.” “What poet?” asked Robert. “Our poet in the cottage; don’t you remember?” “Ah, the morbid young man. Poor fellow!” Isabel suppressed a low laugh. “Come, Rhoda dear, it’s cold,” she said to the girl, who had drawn a little apart. Rhoda followed in silence, her head bent. In the hall she took her candle, and bade the two a hasty good-night. “Why is she crying?” asked Robert, under his voice, as he entered the drawing-room again with Isabel. The latter shook her head, but did not speak. She moved about the room for a moment; the shawl had half slipped from her shoulders, and made a graceful draping. Asquith stood watching her. She approached him. “I half hinted,” she began, “that I had a selfish object in asking you to come here. We are good friends, are we not?--old and good friends?”