"Well, I confess that Debussy seems a trifle alien to this time and place," said Appleton, "and these old ballads suit my taste much better. I think I'll take a nearer view." He shoved his pipe into its case and strolled down the corridor, pausing behind the heavy velvet portieres that shut off the drawing-room. There was no buzz of conversation going on, because there was not a sufficient number of persons to buzz. A very quiet, stodgy audience it was, with no friendly grouping; just a few old gentlemen here and a few old ladies there, sometimes with their prematurely aged and chastened paid companions by their sides. There were some girls of fifteen or sixteen, too, scattered about, a few of them accompanied by prim governesses. Appleton heard the entrance of some one from the anteroom beyond the grand piano, then a few chords, struck by hands that loved the ivory keys and evoked a reciprocal tenderness every time they touched them; then: "Near Woodstock Town in Oxfordshire As I walked forth to take the air, To view the fields and meadows round, Methought I heard a mournful sound." So the chronicle ran on until the crisis came: "The lady round the meadow ran, And gathered flowers as they sprang. Of every sort she there did pull Until she got her apron full." The history of the distracted lady's unhappy passion persevered: "The green ground served her as a bed, The flowers a pillow for her head. She laid her down and nothing spoke. Alas! for love her heart was broke." Appleton was at first too enchanted with the mischievous yet sympathetic rendition of this tragedy to do anything but listen. The voice, the speech, were so full of color and personality he forgot for the moment that there would be a face behind them; but there was an irresistible something in the line, "Until she got her apron full," that forced him to peep behind the curtain just in time to catch the singer's smile. As this is not a story of plot, suspense, or mystery, there is no earthly use in denying that the lady in question was Miss Thomasina Tucker, nor any sense in affirming that her appearance in Fergus Appleton's hotel was in the nature of a dramatic coincidence, since Americans crossing the Atlantic on the same steamer are continually meeting in the British Isles and on the Continent.