There were other times, however, in which the longing for freedom took possession of her, and these times occurred as a rule after some mark of Sheila's disapproval had been evident, for at the close of the second year, Meg was conscious that her friend was not as easy to please as formerly. Any slight trip in the matter of words or manner on her part quickly called down the wrath of her patroness. Meg did not know that as the newness of the situation wore off, Sheila found it difficult to be patient with her mistakes, neither did she know that the very fact of her showing so plainly her love and devotion had the effect of irritating her friend. Meg supposed the irritation that would sometimes arise was due to her own stupidity in not more quickly adapting herself to circumstances, and determined to make still greater efforts to please. But the very efforts had the opposite effect, for they made her unnaturally careful in her pronunciation and manner, and this Sheila felt at times unbearable. Meg did not know that the only way to keep her friend's affection was never to show signs of weakness or to knock under to her. Sheila had to be dealt with as a nettle, which unless grasped fearlessly, stings. Her protégé's very anxiety to please or rather not to offend, provoked her; in plain words she was growing tired of her newest hobby. Her change of front towards Meg had the effect at times of making the latter pant for freedom. The effort to please robbed her of the ability to live her own life and to be herself. She felt tied and bound, and yet she would not for the world have obtained freedom if it would mean leaving Friars Court. She could not contemplate that for a moment. The longer that she was there the more passionately she grew to love it and all that it meant. But for all that, she felt at times like a bird beating its wings against the bars of its golden cage. And yet had the cage been opened she would not have flown away. One morning in the early summer Meg came down to breakfast looking rather sad. She did not enter much into the conversation, and when she had finished breakfast she sat looking out into the garden with a wistful expression of face. Sheila was in very good spirits, talking over with Miss Gregson a garden party that she meant to give soon. She was going to procure a band from London, but the chief item of the programme was to be a song from Meg. Sheila had given her singing lessons, and the girl's voice had grown both in power and sweetness. No one but Miss Gregson had ever heard her sing; not even Peter, as Sheila was bent on giving him a surprise. She was vexed at Peter's very sparse praise of her protégé.