"I hope you have a stray failing or two lurking somewhere amongst your perfections; but I have not discovered one yet." "Ah, Allan, Love would not be Love if he could see." "Tell me all your news, Suzie. What have you been doing with yourself? Your letters have told me a good deal--dear bright letters, coming like a burst of sunshine into my sad life--but they could not tell me enough. I suppose you have been often at Discombe?" "Yes, I have been there nearly every day. Mrs. Wornock has been ill and depressed. She will not own to being ill, and I could not persuade her to send for the doctor. But I don't think she could be in such low spirits if she were not ill." "Poor soul!" "She is so sympathetic, Allan. She has been as keenly interested in your poor father's illness as if he were her dearest friend. She has been so eager to hear about his progress, and has begged me to read the passages in your letters which refer to him. She is so tender-hearted, and enters so fully into other people's sorrows." "And you have been much with her, and have done all in your power to cheer her, no doubt." "I have done what I could. We have made music together; but she has not taken her old delight in playing, or in listening to me. She has become dreamy and self-absorbed. I am sure she is out of health." "And her son, for whose company she was pining all the summer? Has not he been able to cheer her spirits?" "I hardly know about that. Mr. Wornock is out hunting all day and every day. He has increased his stud since you left, and hunts with three packs of hounds. He comes home after dark, sometimes late for dinner. He and his mother spend the evening together, and no doubt that is her golden hour." "And has Wornock given up his violin practice?" "He plays for an hour after dinner sometimes, when he is not too tired?" "And your musical mornings? Have there been no more of those--no more concertante duets?" "Allan, I told you that there should be no more such duets for me." "You might have changed your mind." "Not after having promised. I considered that a promise." "Conscientious soul! And you think me a jealous brute, no doubt?" "I don't think you a brute." "But a jealous idiot. My dearest, I don't think I am altogether wrong. A wife--or a betrothed wife--should have no absorbing interest outside her husband's or her sweetheart's life; and music is an absorbing interest, a chain of potent strength between two minds. When I heard those impassioned strains on the fiddle, and your tender imitations on the piano, question and answer, question and answer, for ever repeating themselves, and breathing only love----" "Oh, Allan, what an ignoramus you are! Do you suppose musical people ever think of anything but the music they are playing?" "They may not think, but they must feel. They can't help being borne along on that strong current."