His setting of "Jock o'Hazeldean" proved irresistible: "They sought her baith by bower an ha'; The ladie was not seen." And then with a swirl and a torrent of sound, a clangor of sword and a clatter of hoofs: "She's o'er the Border and awa' Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean." Appleton didn't see any valid reason why Tovey should kiss Tommy's hand in responding to the third recall, but supposed it must be a composer's privilege, and wished that he were one. Then the crowd made its way into the brilliant Torquay sunshine, and Appleton lingered in the streets until the time came for the tea-party arranged for the artists at the hotel. It was a gay little gathering, assisted by a charming lady of the town, who always knew the celebrated people who flock there in all seasons. Spalding and Tovey were the lions, but Miss Thomasina Tucker did not lack for compliments. Her cheeks glowed and her eyes sparkled under the white tulle brim of her hat. Her neck looked deliciously white and young, rising from its transparent chiffons, and her bunch of mignonette gave a note of delicate distinction. The long-haired gentleman was present, and turned out to be a local poet. He told Miss Tucker that she ought never to wear or to carry another flower. "Not, at all events, till you pass thirty!" he said. "You belong together--you, your songs, and the mignonette!"--at which she flung a shy upward glance at Appleton, saying: "It is this American friend who has really established the connection, though I have always worn green and white and always loved the flower." "You sent me some verses, Mr. Appleton," she said, as the poet moved away. "I have them safe" (and she touched her bodice), "but I haven't had a quiet moment to read them." "Just a little tribute," Appleton answered carelessly. "Are you leaving? If so, I'll get your flowers into a cab and drive you on." "No. I am going, quite unexpectedly, to Exeter to-night. Let us sit down in this corner a moment and I'll tell you. Mr. Tovey has asked me to substitute for a singer who is ill. The performance is on Monday and I chance to know the cantata. I shall not be paid, but it will be a fine audience and it may lead to something; after all, it's not out of my way in going to Wells." "Aren't you overtired to travel any more to-night?" "No, I am treading air! I have no sense of being in the body at all. Mrs. Cholmondeley, that dark-haired lady you were talking with a moment ago, lives in Exeter and will take me to her house. And how nice that I don't have to say good-bye, for you still mean to go to Wells?" "Oh, yes! I haven't nearly finished with the cathedral--I shall be there before you. Can I look up lodgings or do anything for you?"