"Oh, I was not to say ill. Why should I worry you about such nonsense? I was only below par. That is what Dr. Podmore called it. But please don't talk about me, Allan. Talk to me of yourself and of your poor mother. She is coming to stay with you, I hope?" "Yes, she is coming to me next week. How is Mrs. Wornock? Do you go to her as much as ever?" "Almost as much. She seems so dependent upon me for companionship, poor soul. I am the only girl she has taken to--as people say." "What a wise woman to choose the most charming girl in the world." "If you said in the Matcham world, it would not be a stupendous compliment." "Nay, I mean the world. I challenge the universe to produce me a second Suzette. And Geoffrey, your violin player, has he been much at home?" "Not very much. Please don't call him my violin player. I have not played a single accompaniment for him since you objected. I have been very dutiful." "Don't talk of duty. It is love that I want, love without alloy; love which, being full of foolishness itself, can forgive a lover's baseless jealousy." "Allan, have I ever been unforgiving?" "No, you have borne with my tempers. You have been all that is kind and sweet--but I sometimes wish you would be angry with me. Would that there were a girl in Matcham handsome enough to admit of your jealousy! How desperately I would flirt with that girl!" Her wan smile was not encouraging. "Is he still as devoted to his fiddle? Does he talk of Tartini, Spontini, de Beriot, as other men talk of Salisbury or Gladstone?" "I have seen very little of him; but he is a fanatic about music. He inherits his mother's passion." "His poor mother," sighed Allan. "She is so fond of you--almost as fond as she is of her own son." "That's not possible, Suzie." "Well, the son must be first, of course; but, indeed, she is very fond of you, Allan." "Dear soul, it is for old sake's sake. I'll tell you her poor little innocent secret, Suzie. You, who are the other half of my soul, have a right to know all things which gravely interest me. Only you must be discretion itself; and you must never breathe a word of Mrs. Wornock's story to my mother." And then he sat down by her side in the comfortable corner by the old-fashioned fireplace, fenced off from all the outer world by a Japanese screen, on which Choti and an army of smaller devils grinned and capered against a black satin background, and he told her tenderly, but only in outline, the story of his father's first love, and Esperanza's all-too-willing sacrifice. "It was generous--but a mistake," he said in conclusion. "She gave up her own happiness, dashed away the cup of joy when it was at her lips. She was nobly unselfish, and she spoilt two lives. Such sacrifices never answer." "Do you really believe that, Allan?" asked Suzette, looking at him with a startling intensity.