If there was something a little forced in her mirth, at least nobody detected it, save those who knew her very well, and not even all of those, for Haddon was obviously unconscious that anything was wrong, and talked to Monica in the most unconcerned fashion possible. What Tom thought of it all nobody could hazard an opinion. At length Monica gave the signal to her animated guest, and they two withdrew together. Beatrice laughed gaily, as she half walked half waltzed across the hall, humming a dance tune the while. “What a lovely place this would be for a dance!” she exclaimed, “a masked, or, better still, a fancy dress ball. Shouldn’t we look charming in these panelled rooms, flitting about this great baronial hall, and up and down that delightful staircase? Monica, you and Randolph mustn’t get lazy; you must live up to your house. It is too beautiful to be wasted. If you don’t know how to manage matters, I must come and teach you?” And so she rattled on, first on one theme, and then on another, in restless, aimless fashion, as people do who are talking against time, or talking with a purpose, determined not to let silence fall between them and their companions. It was easy to see that Beatrice wished to avoid any confidential conversation—wished to escape from any kind of questioning, or from quiet talk, of whatever description it might be. When at length she did let Monica go back to the drawing-room, it was not with any idea of silence. She went straight to the piano, and began playing stormily. Presently, after dashing off fragments vocal and instrumental in a sort of confused medley, Monica, growing dreamy as she listened to the succession of changing harmonies, she began once again with more of purpose and of passion in her voice—indeed, there was so much of pain and passion, that Monica was aroused to listen. “My heart, my heart is like a singing bird Whose nest is in a watered shoot; My heart, my heart is like an apple-tree, Whose boughs are hung with thick-set fruit. My heart, my heart is like a rainbow-shell That paddles in a halcyon sea; My heart, my heart is gladder than all these, Because my love, my love has come to me. My heart——” And then the singer’s voice failed utterly; a dismal discordant chord broke the eager harmonies that had followed one another so rapidly. Beatrice broke into a sudden storm of tears, and hurried from the room without a word.