‘I should think so! The adherents of the different musical creeds are given to a “bear and forbearance” equal to that of adherents of different religious creeds.’ Myles laughed a little at this and said, ‘Then I’m sure ignorance is bliss in that case. We’re somewhat overrun with parsons in these parts. The women make so much of them that they seem quite to lose their understanding--what they have of it. But the vicar--Canon Ponsonby--he is quite different; and he keeps a pretty tight hand over his parsons. I’ve heard that he shows them their place sometimes as if they were schoolboys. He ought to have been a prime minister, ought Canon Ponsonby.’ ‘Yes, I know him,’ said Adrienne. ‘He and my uncle are great friends. He is a grand old gentleman.’ Here they turned in at the wicket of Stonegate; Adrienne opened the door, and Myles for the first time--not for the last by any means--stood within that sad-looking, lonesome old house. It was a square, matted hall in which they stood; dimly lighted by a Japanese lantern, also square, hanging from the roof. On a great oaken table in the centre, stood a large, beautiful vase of grey-green Vallouris ware. Over the carved mantelpiece hung an oil-painting--a fine copy of that beautiful likeness of Goethe--the one with the dark rings of curling hair, and the magnificent face; that likeness which always reminds one of the _herrlichen Jüngling_ described by Bettina as the hero of a certain skating scene, when he stole his mother’s cloak--_der Kälte wegen_. Opposite to this picture stood, on a pedestal, a bust of Orfila. These were the only ornaments in the place: every other available corner was filled with book-shelves loaded with books. A dome-light gave light by day to this hall. ‘This way,’ said Adrienne, opening a door to the left, and Myles followed her into the room. This room too was lighted with lamps and candles. There was a table in the centre--a writing-table in one of the windows, piled with books, and papers, and manuscripts. In an easy-chair, beside this writing-table, reading, was a man--presumably the ‘uncle’ of whom Adrienne had so often spoken. ‘Uncle’ said she, going up to him, and touching his arm, ‘here is Mr. Heywood, of whom I spoke to you.’ He looked up, and Myles beheld a strange, long, pale face, with hollow eyes, and a large and, as it seemed to him, an expressionless mouth. It was a deathlike face; its expression neutral to impassiveness. ‘Mr. Heywood--oh, I am glad to see you. Take a seat.’ Somewhat chilled by this unenthusiastic greeting Myles complied without a word, feeling remarkably small and insignificant, while Adrienne produced her papers, sat down at the desk, and began to arrange them. Mr. Blisset turned towards her, but did not move his chair. He merely observed to Myles,