The neighbours nearly always spoke of their respective homes by their elegant names. “Won’t Mrs Somers go across to Wyewurk, Vicky says. She’s making a blouse or something, sewing some old bits of rag together--or new bits--and I expect she’ll need a pageful of advice about it.” This was what Jack had said. Harriet had gone with apparent alacrity, but with real resentment. She had never in all her life had “neighbours,” and she didn’t know what neighbouring really meant. She didn’t care for it, on trial. Not after she and Victoria had said and heard most of the things they wanted to say and hear. But they liked each other also. And though Victoria could be a terribly venomous little cat, once she unsheathed her claws and became rather “common,” still, so long as her claws were sheathed her paws were quite velvety and pretty, she was winsome and charming to Harriet, a bit deferential before her, which flattered the other woman. And then, lastly, Victoria had quite a decent piano, and played nicely, whereas Harriet had a good voice, and played badly. So that often, as the two men played chess or had one of their famous encounters, they would hear Harriet’s strong, clear voice singing Schubert or Schumann or French or English folk songs, whilst Victoria played. And both women were happy, because though Victoria was fond of music and had an instinct for it, her knowledge of songs was slight, and to be learning these old English and old French melodies, as well as the German and the Italian songs, was a real adventure and a pleasure to her. They were still singing when Jack returned. “Still at it!” he said manfully, from the background, chewing his little pipe. Harriet looked round. She was just finishing the joyous moan of _Plaisir d’amour_, a song she loved because it tickled her so. “_Dure toute la vie--i--i--ie--i--e_,” she sang the concluding words at him, laughing in his face. “You’re back early,” she said. “Felt a mental twilight coming on,” he said, “so thought we’d better close down for the night.” Harriet divined that, to use her expression, Somers had been “disagreeable to him.” “Don’t you sing?” she cried. “Me! Have you ever heard a cow at a gate when she wants to come in and be milked?” “Oh, he does!” cried Victoria. “He sang a duet at the Harbour Lights Concert.” “There!” cried Harriet. “How exciting! What duet did he sing?” “Larboard Watch Ahoy!” “Oh! Oh! I know that,” cried Harriet, remembering a farmer friend of Somers’, who had initiated her into the thrilling harmony, down in Cornwall. “There wasn’t a soul left in the hall, when we’d finished, except Victoria and the other chap’s wife,” said Jack. “Oh, what a fib. They applauded like anything, and made you give an _encore_.” “Ay, and we didn’t know another bally duet between us, so we had to sing Larboard Watch over again. It was Larboard Alarum Clock by the time we got to the end of it, it went off with such a rattle.”