"Yes. My mother has written to invite her to Fendyke. She is to see the White Farm, and get acquainted with all our Suffolk neighbours, who declare themselves dying to see her, while I am shooting my father's pheasants." "You are both going away then? I shall miss you sadly." "You will have Geoffrey." "One day out of six, perhaps. He will be hunting or shooting all the rest of the week." "We shall not be away very long. I don't suppose General Vincent will spare us his daughter for more than a fortnight or three weeks." "Suzette told me nothing about the invitation." "She has not received the letter yet. The post had not come in when she left home. I met the postman on my way here, and read my letters as I came along. De Beriot has been too absorbing to allow of my telling Suzette about my mother's letter to me. Shall we go back? Unless that sonata is interminable, it must have come to an end before now." Mrs. Wornock turned immediately. She saw Allan's uneasiness, and sympathized with him. They went back to the music-room, where there was only silence. Suzette had left the piano, and had put on her hat and jacket. Geoffrey was still standing in front of the music-stand, turning the leaves of the offending sonata. "Good-bye, dear Mrs. Wornock," said Suzette, kissing her friend. "Now, Allan, I am quite ready." Allan and Geoffrey shook hands at parting, but not with the usual smiling friendliness. "How could you be so dreadfully rude, Allan?" Suzette said with a pained voice, as they walked away from the house. "You were quite hateful." "I know that. I am astounded at my own capacity for hatefulness." "I shall play no more concertante duets, though I have enjoyed them more than anything in the way of music. It was only the most advanced pupils at the Sacré Cœur who ever had accompanying lessons--and such happiness never fell to my share." "I should be very sorry to interfere with your--happiness; but I think, Suzette, if you cared for me half as much as I care for you, you would understand how it hurts me to see you so completely in sympathy with another man, and happy with a happiness which I cannot share." "Why should you not share our happiness, Allan? You are fond of music, I know." "Fond of music--yes; but I am not a musician. I cannot make music as that young man can. I cannot speak to you as he speaks to you, in that language which is his and yours, and not mine. I am standing outside your world. I feel myself thrust far off from you, while he is so near." "Allan!" cried Suzette, with a smile that was a pale shadow of her old sportiveness, "can you actually be jealous?" "I'm afraid I can."