The sound of the piano reasserted itself in the comparative silence which followed the passing of the car. Roger made a gesture of impatience. “I suppose that’s my nephew playing?” he demanded. “He was shooting darts at a target in the garden, a short time ago,” Stenness explained, “but I think he came in a few minutes ago.” “It sounds like him. Since he had that attack of sleepy sickness he always fumbles a bit on his chords—doesn’t seem able to manage his fingers perfectly. That makes this din all the harder to bear.” Stenness refrained from any comment. Roger, after a pause, continued irritably. “Where are the visitors, Stenness? I wish they’d attract him out of the house. Some days he’s all right and one never sees him. Other days he sits and pounds that piano till one’s head rings with it.” “I noticed Miss Forrest and Mr. Torrance going towards the rose garden a few minutes ago.” Stenness confined himself to answering the direct question and quietly ignored Roger’s exasperation. It was no business of his to intervene in family squabbles. “Well, that’s all I have for you at present, Stenness. As you’re passing the door, send my nephew to me, will you? I must put a stop to this nuisance. It’s gone on quite long enough.” The secretary made a gesture of assent, then gathered up his papers and left the room. A few seconds later, the piano-playing stopped abruptly in the middle of a bar, and Roger’s ear caught the clang of the keyboard lid being carelessly slammed. After a moment or two, his nephew entered the study. In order to give his irritation time to cool down, Roger refrained from speaking immediately. He motioned his nephew to sit down, whilst he himself pulled out his cigar-case and became busy with the preparations for a smoke. Having got his cigar well alight, he turned round. “Must you hammer that piano for hours at a time, Arthur? I hate to interfere with your simple pleasures, of course; but the infernal din you make has had quite a long enough run. You’ve played _Frühlingsrauschen_ at least two dozen times to-day; and that’s just twenty-four times oftener than I want to hear it. You can cut it out of the bill, after this. In fact, you can leave the piano alone, once for all. I’m sick of hearing you play. You’re a nuisance to everyone, raising Pandemonium at all hours of the day. Find some quieter amusement, or clear out of the house.” Arthur Hawkhurst’s eyebrows rose in mild surprise at his uncle’s complaint. “I’d no idea it worried you, uncle.” “Well, drop it.” “Perhaps I have been overdoing _Frühlingsrauschen_ a bit. I hadn’t thought of that. Somehow I never seem to get through it without a mistake in one or two chords, and I want to make a clean job of it, once at least.” “I’ve got a pair of quite good ears. You needn’t think I missed your mistakes. They make it more irritating, that’s all.” Arthur hastened to admit his errors.