“Such execution, you know!” she persisted. “That’s what she _deserves_,” Arthur doggedly replied: “but people are so prejudiced against capital——” “Now you’re beginning to talk nonsense!” Lady Muriel cried. “But you _do_ like Music, don’t you? You said so just now.” “Do I like _Music_?” the Doctor repeated softly to himself. “My dear Lady Muriel, there is Music and Music. Your question is painfully vague. You might as well ask ‘Do you like _People_?’” Lady Muriel bit her lip, frowned, and stamped with one tiny foot. As a dramatic representation of ill-temper, it was distinctly _not_ a success. However, it took in _one_ of her audience, and Bruno hastened to interpose, as peacemaker in a rising quarrel, with the remark “_I_ likes Peoples!” Arthur laid a loving hand on the little curly head. “What? _All_ Peoples?” he enquired. “Not _all_ Peoples,” Bruno explained. “Only but Sylvie—and Lady Muriel—and him—” (pointing to the Earl) “and oo—and oo!” “You shouldn’t point at people,” said Sylvie. “It’s very rude.” “In Bruno’s World,” I said, “there are only _four_ People—worth mentioning!” “In Bruno’s World!” Lady Muriel repeated thoughtfully. “A bright and flowery world. Where the grass is always green, where the breezes always blow softly, and the rain-clouds never gather; where there are no wild beasts, and no deserts——” “There _must_ be deserts,” Arthur decisively remarked. “At least if it was _my_ ideal world.” “But what possible use is there in a _desert_?” said Lady Muriel. “_Surely_ you would have no wilderness in your ideal world?” Arthur smiled. “But indeed I _would_!” he said. “A wilderness would be more necessary than a railway; and _far_ more conducive to general happiness than church-bells!” “But what would you use it for?” “_To practise music in_,” he replied. “All the young ladies, that have no ear for music, but insist on learning it, should be conveyed, every morning, two or three miles into the wilderness. There each would find a comfortable room provided for her, and also a cheap second-hand piano-forte, on which she might play for hours, without adding one needless pang to the sum of human misery!” Lady Muriel glanced round in alarm, lest these barbarous sentiments should be overheard. But the fair musician was at a safe distance. “At any rate you must allow that she’s a sweet girl?” she resumed. “Oh, certainly. As sweet as _eau sucrée_, if you choose—and nearly as interesting!” “You are incorrigible!” said Lady Muriel, and turned to me. “I hope you found Mrs. Mills an interesting companion?” “Oh, _that’s_ her name, is it?” I said. “I fancied there was _more_ of it.” “So there is: and it will be ‘at your proper peril’ (whatever that may mean) if you ever presume to address her as ‘Mrs. Mills.’ She is ‘Mrs. Ernest—Atkinson—Mills’!”