“No, thank you very much,” she answered, once more seating herself at the instrument. “I have had my tea!” “You don’t mean to say that you are going to play again?” he asked in a tone of indignant astonishment. “Yes, I am going to play all the evening,” she replied, turning over the leaves and finding the place, with a considerably heightened colour. “But last year you danced all the evening. What does it mean?” “It means, Mr. Wynne, that I was then one of the boarders; now, I am only a pupil-teacher. Circumstances are changed; it is my duty to play--and,” faltering slightly, “I like it.” “I find it difficult to believe that, Miss West,” he exclaimed; “but I suppose I must endeavour to do so. Will you permit me to turn over the leaves?” “No, no!” she protested eagerly; “on no account. You must dance.” “‘Je n’en vois pas la nécessité,’” he quoted, seating himself deliberately as he spoke. “I am afraid you have lost a relative,” he continued, in a lower voice. “Your father?” “I have in one sense,” now striking up another waltz. “My father has not been heard of for a whole year and a half. When last he wrote he had lost a great deal of money. He was always a speculator. He has never written since----” She paused expressively. “And have you no friend or relation in this country?” “No, none that I have any claim upon. I have been at school here since I was seven years old.” “And, good heavens! you don’t mean to tell me that you have no resource but to remain on here as pupil-teacher?” “No other. You see I have no home in this country. I had one long ago in Melbourne--the only one I ever knew.” “Do you remember it?” he asked rather abstractedly. “Yes, I remember the big white house and the bright, sunny climate.” “Has your father never come home to see you all these years?” “Never! I’m afraid--I’m afraid----” She paused, unable to articulate, but her fingers still played steadily on. “_I’m_ afraid,” he said in a low voice, bending forward, “that you are not happy here,” contrasting rapidly in his own mind the brilliant figure she had made last year, as the belle of the evening, the cynosure of all eyes, to what she now appeared, the poor piano-playing drudge, not so much as rewarded with a “thank you,” and dressed in a gown that even _he_ could see was shabby and old-fashioned. “Oh, Mr. Wynne!” said a sprightly staccato voice at his elbow. “Oh! you naughty man! Why are you not dancing? Come away; I cannot have you distracting Miss West’s attention, you dreadful person! We are going to have another set of lancers, and you shall be _my_ partner.”