‘Then you shall not hear me,’ said Lucius, with perfect good humour. He was determined to make friends with this grim old bric-à-brac dealer if he could, just as one resolves to overcome the prejudices of an unfriendly dog, believing that beneath his superficial savagery there must be a substratum of nobility. ‘I only thought a little quiet music might amuse Miss Sivewright, since she says she is fond of the violin.’ ‘She doesn’t know what she is fond of,’ replied Sivewright testily; ‘she is full of fancies and whims, and likes everything that I abhor. There, no tears, child,’ as those dark gentle eyes filled; ‘you know I hate those most of all.’ Lucius came to the rescue, and began to talk with renewed vivacity, thus covering Lucille’s confusion. He spoke of himself, giving all those details of his childhood and youth, the knowledge of which between new acquaintances at once establishes the familiarity that is half-way towards friendship. He left early, fearful of outstaying his welcome; left with a sense of perfect content in this quiet domestic evening, although the old man had certainly not gone out of his way to conciliate his visitor. Lucille had talked very little, but even her silence had been interesting to Lucius. It seemed to him the indication, not of dulness, but of a gentle melancholy; a mind overshadowed by some olden sorrow, and perhaps depressed by the solitude of that dreary mansion. He was not satisfied with a continental curtsy at parting, but offered Lucille his hand, which she took as frankly as if she had fully accepted him in the character of an adopted brother. CHAPTER V. ‘I HAD A SON, NOW OUTLAW’D FROM MY BLOOD.’ Ten o’clock the next morning beheld Lucius again at the tall gate. He was admitted without question, and the open door of the parlour showed him Lucille—in a gray stuff gown, a large linen apron, and a white muslin cap, like a French grisette’s—rubbing the oaken wainscot with a beeswaxed cloth; while a small tub of water on the table and some china cups and saucers set out to drain, showed that she had been washing the breakfast things. This circumstance explained the spotless neatness of all he had seen—the shining wainscot, the absence of a grain of dust upon any object in the room. She came out to wish him good-morning, nowise abashed. ‘I daresay your English young ladies would think this very shocking,’ she said. ‘I ought to be practising Czerny’s _Exercises de Facilité_, ought I not, at this time in the morning?’