And yet, Linnet was happier that first season in London than ever before since her marriage with Andreas. She knew well why. In fear and trembling, with many a qualm of conscience, she nevertheless confessed to herself the simple truth; it was that Will was near, and she felt at all times dimly conscious of his nearness. Not that she saw much of him; both she and Will sedulously avoided that pitfall; but from time to time they met, for the most part by accident; and even when they didn’t, she knew instinctively Will was watching over her unseen, and guarding her. She was no longer alone in the great outer world; she had some one to love her, to care for her, to observe her. Often, as she sang, her eyes fell on his face upturned in the stalls towards her; her heart gave a throb; she faltered and half-paused—then went on again all the happier. Often, too, as she walked in Kensington Gardens with Andreas, Will would happen to pass by—_so_ natural for a man who lives in Craven Street, Strand, to be strolling of an afternoon in Kensington Gardens!—and whenever he passed, he stopped and spoke a few words to her, which Linnet answered in her pretty, hardly foreign English. “How well you speak now!” Will exclaimed, one such day, as she described to him in glowing terms some duchess’s house she had lately visited. The delicate glow that rose so readily to that rich brown cheek flushed Linnet’s face once more as she answered, well pleased, “Oh yes; I had so many reasons, you see, Herr Will, for learning it!”—she called him Herr Will even in English still—it was a familiar sound, and for old times’ sake she loved it;—then she added, half-shamefacedly, “Andreas always said it was wiser so; I should make my best fortunes in England and America.” Will nodded, and passed on, pretending not to catch at her half-suppressed meaning; but he knew in his own heart what her chief reason was for taking so much pains to improve her English. They saw but little of one another, to be sure, and that little by chance; though Andreas Hausberger, at least, made no effort to keep them apart. On the contrary, if ever they met by appointment at all, ’twas at Andreas’s own special desire or invitation. The wise _Wirth_ of St Valentin was too prudent a man to give way, like Franz Lindner, to pettish freaks of pure personal jealousy. He noted, indeed, that Linnet was happiest when she saw most of Will Deverill; not many things escaped that keen observer’s vision. But when Linnet was happiest she always sang best. Therefore, Andreas, being a wise and prudent man, rather threw them together now and again than otherwise. That cool head of his never allowed anything to interfere with the course of business; he was too sure of Linnet to be afraid of losing her. It was a voice he had married, not a living, breathing woman—an exquisite voice, with all its glorious potentialities of wealth untold, now beginning to flow in upon him that season in London.