"I’ve been driving Major Bethune in the cart. And the pony went like an angel on four legs," said Aspasia. "I suppose the wind caught my face." She pressed the back of her hands to her cheeks, as she spoke, and her eyes danced above them. It was the rose of happiness and no evanescent wind bloom that glowed in her innocent childish countenance. Women’s glances are cruelly quick to read the tender secrets of each other’s souls. Lady Gerardine’s look hardened as she still fixed the girl; her own wounded inconsequent heart was suddenly aflame with anger against her. Not a fortnight ago had Aspasia been setting flowers before the portrait of Harry English and offering, in passionate love, melodies to that mystic presence. And it had been sufficient that this Bethune’s everyday substantiality should show itself, for the fickle creature to change allegiance. She had dared to think she loved Harry English, and now she dared to desecrate this love! They were in the drawing-room waiting the summons for lunch. Bethune had not yet appeared. With an air of embarrassment very foreign to her, Baby tossed off her hat and coat and moved restlessly to the piano. She wished pettishly, to herself, that her aunt would stop staring. But nothing could drive the lustre from her own eyes and the upward tilt from her lips. She had had such a lovely drive over the wet downs; they had watched the scolding, stamping squirrel in the hazel copse. His dark face had brightened so often. His gaze had rested on her so gently now and again. When he got down to open the wicket gate for her he had gathered a little pale belated monthly rose from the bush at the side, and had given it to her. She would always keep it, always.... Her fingers strayed unconsciously over the keys from one harmony to another. They fell into a familiar theme—the Chopin Prelude, with its sobbing rain-beat accompaniment. She forgot Lady Gerardine and her dry hostile tones, her cold violating look. Following the strong pinions of her art, her young emotions had begun to beat tentative wings, when she was brought down to earth, as once before, very suddenly and with no pleasant shock. "Whom is your music addressed to now, Aspasia?" asked Lady Gerardine, leaning over towards her with folded arms on the piano. The musician’s fingers dropped from the notes. "To nobody that belongs to you!" she cried rudely, with a flare of schoolgirl anger. Her face crimsoned. Lady Gerardine’s gaze was filled with a lightning contempt. She straightened herself and looked at the empty space on the wall, where Harry English’s portrait had hung. "In truth," she said, "my dear, you don’t take long to change." Her voice was scornful. Quite taken aback and in a hot rage, Aspasia bounced up from the music-stool. But before a coherent word could relieve her, Major Bethune came in upon them.