‘And your readers, too, perhaps,’ thought Myles, unwillingly forced to wonder whether there were much use in Mr. Blisset’s gigantic undertaking. At this juncture Adrienne came into the room again; and Myles, beholding her for the first time in indoor dress, was sensible of a warmer, deeper feeling of admiration than he had hitherto experienced. There was a nameless foreign charm about her, which worked like a spell upon him. She held some trifling work in her hand, and coming quietly in, seated herself, and lent her attention to her uncle as he went on discoursing in a monotone, which by degrees fascinated Myles, so that he listened intently, and _nolens volens_. It was only afterwards, in thinking it all over, that he remembered what a sad, dreary life it must be for the young girl, alone with this stupendous egotist, listening while he discoursed of--himself; helping him in his great work; writing letters relating to his vast undertaking; studying hard in order to supply him with facts. That was all true: but at the moment Myles did not think of it, for Mr. Blisset spoke upon subjects that the young man had thought about himself--subjects that made his heart burn--of governments and peoples, and the lessons which history may teach us. And when Myles heard the treasures of learning and research, which Mr. Blisset had undoubtedly accumulated, brought to bear upon his own view of the question, and found that the speaker too was one of those whose watchword is-- ‘The people, Lord! the people! Not crowns and thrones, but _men_!’ his admiration speedily grew to enthusiasm, and he sat listening, his handsome face all flushed with eagerness, and was disposed, before the evening was over, to rank Mr. Blisset as a demigod. Mr. Blisset was pleased, like other philosophers, with the admiration he excited, and surveyed the young man with a favouring eye. ‘You must come and see me again,’ said he. ‘It is always a pleasure to me to know one who has thought and felt upon these subjects. But I have talked till I feel almost exhausted. Adrienne, my love, suppose you give us some music.’ ‘Yes, uncle,’ said she; ‘I like you to talk in that way,’ she added, touching his forehead with her lips. ‘Then you do yourself justice.’ There was a piano in the room, and Adrienne’s playing for her uncle when the day’s work was quite over--a sort of requiem upon the toil they had passed through--was as regular a thing as the falling of night upon the earth. There, in the world of harmony, was her kingdom--there she ruled; from thence she could sway the hearts of men. The harmonies she made for them that evening were calm and grave--a pathetic _Tema_ of Haydn’s; a solemn _Ciaconna_ of Bach’s; a slow movement, the ‘singing together of the morning stars,’ of Beethoven’s.