Affecting, while he spoke, the simplest conversational manner, he had an acute eye all the time for the two across the room. He observed the little attention the Earl was paying to the wiles besieging him, his disturbed glances his way, the morose suspicion of his expression; and he knew that the man was still too corroded with jealousy to play adequately the part assigned him. And in so far the decoy had failed, it seemed, to justify her uses. It was evident that, as Chesterfield had stated, she had begun to weary him--a perilous situation, which must be stopped from developing itself at whatever cost. But this mischief had reserves of fascination not yet brought into action. Kate’s own guitar--the famous instrument--lay on a table hard by. The sight of it brought one of these reserves most opportunely into his mind. If he dared--but he _must_ dare. Kate looked at her beguiler queerly. “I had forgotten,” she said. “Thank you, cousin. Is your advice very disinterested?” “To that extreme,” said he, “that I offer myself, if you will, the fond instrument to this provocation. Purely to serve you, believe me. Why, watch him now, and judge if, for all his misbehaviour, he would relish that sort of retort on his infidelity.” “I will not watch him,” she said, “or even look at him. You are very kind to me, cousin. I will think on what you say.” He was so elated that he decided on the venture. Lifting the guitar, he ran his fingers over the strings. “This, Mrs. Davis,” said he, advancing a few steps, “is thought, as no doubt you have been informed, the finest instrument of its kind in London. Do you play?” The girl’s eyes sparkled. If she had a soul, it was to be evoked, small and indefinite, through music. Hamilton had calculated on that effect. “I play,” she said. “Give it me.” Her ladyship exclaimed angrily-- “No! Put it away, cousin. I will not have it so misused.” He laughed. “O, Kate! Never so churlish. Those fingers, I’ll go bail, were not made for hurt or discord. I prithee, sweet Kate.” “Give it me,” said Moll entreatingly. “I’ll use it so I’ll make you all love me.” Too indignant and too proud to protest further, the young Countess contented herself by flinging into a chair, where she sat with her back turned obstinately on the performer. And Moll played, her fingers fluttering over the strings like butterflies, and drawing honey wheresoever they alighted. It was not great music, accomplished, soul-stirring; but it was very natural and very moving, quite true, quite simple, welling from the little spring that was her one pure sincerity. And presently--just as, sympathetically, when notes and chords are struck you may see a caged bird’s throat swell and throb, until the responsive rapture comes irresistibly bubbling forth and overflowing--her voice melted into, or took up, the melodious refrain her hands were shaping; and in a moment she was singing a little song, as sweet as a thrush upon a tree--