‘Yes, Lucius, the old story, with very little variation. She is here, and I can’t tear myself away, but go dawdling on from day to day and hour to hour. Half-a-dozen times I have packed my portmanteaus and ordered the fly to take me to the station, and then at the last moment I have said to myself, “Why should I go away? I am a free man, and an idle one, and may just as well live here as anywhere else.”’ ‘Ah, Geoff, that comes of your being without a profession.’ ‘It would be just the same if I were half-way towards the Woolsack—ay, if I were Lord Chancellor—I should only be torn in twain between my profession and my hopeless foolish love.’ ‘But how does it happen that she—Mrs. Bertram—is still here? Are there perpetual concerts in Stillmington?’ ‘No; but after the little girl’s illness, perhaps in consequence of that, she took a disgust for concert singing. She fancied the hurrying from place to place—the excitement caused by frequent change of scene—bad for her darling’s health. Nor was this her only reason; she has often told me her own dislike of public life. So when the little girl recovered, Mrs. Bertram advertised for pupils in the local papers. The doctor, who had taken a great fancy to her, recommended her to all his patients, and in less than a month she had secured half-a-dozen pupils, and had taken nicer rooms than those in which you saw her. She has now a singing class three times a week. I hear them sol-faing when I pass the windows during my morning walk. There is even a little brass-plate on the door: “Mrs. Bertram, teacher of music.” Imagine, Lucius, the woman I love to the verge of idolatry is obliged to put a brass-plate on her door and teach squalling misses, while I am wallowing in wealth.’ ‘A much better life for any woman than that of a public singer,’ said Lucius; ‘above all for—’ ‘Such a lovely woman as Jane Bertram. Yes, I agree with you. Who could see her and not adore her? But think, Lucius, how superior this woman must be to all the things which most women love, when she can willingly surrender professional success, the admiration of the public, even the triumph of her art, for the love of her child: and shut herself in from the world, and resign herself to lead a life as lonely and joyless as the life of a convent.’ ‘It proves, as you say, that the lady possesses a superior mind; for which I should have given her credit even without such evidence. But it appears that in her seclusion she has not closed her door against you; since you are so familiar with her opinions and her mode of life.’