Though she talked so sweetly there was, Karen felt it now, a perfunctoriness in Tante's remarks. She was, for all the play of her nimble fancy, preoccupied, and the sound of the motor-horn below seemed a signal for release. "Tallie is, _mon Dieu_," she computed, rising--"she was twenty-three when I was born--and I am nearly fifty"--Madame von Marwitz was as far above cowardly reticences about her age as a timeless goddess--"Tallie is actually seventy-two. Well, I must be off, _ma chérie_. We have a long trip to make to-day. We go to Fowey. He wishes to see Fowey. I pray the weather may continue fine. You will be with us this evening? You will get up? You will come to dinner?" She paused at the mantelpiece to adjust her veil, and Karen, in the glass, saw that her eyes were fixed on hers with a certain intentness. "Yes, I will get up this morning, Tante," she said. "I will help Mrs. Talcott with the garden. But dinner? Mrs. Talcott says that she has supper now. Shall I not have my supper with her? Perhaps she would like that?" "That would perhaps be well," said Madame von Marwitz. "That is perhaps well thought." Still she paused and still, in the glass, she fixed cogitating eyes on Karen. She turned, then, abruptly. "But no; I do not think so. On second thoughts I do not think so. You will dine with us. Tallie is quite happy alone. She is pleased with the early supper. I shall see you, then, this evening." A slight irritation lay on her brows; but she leaned with all her tenderness to kiss Karen, murmuring, "_Adieu, mon enfant_." When the sound of the motor had died away Karen got up, dressed and went downstairs. The music-room, its windows open to the sea, was full of the signs of occupancy. The great piano stood open. Karen went to it and, standing over it, played softly the dearly loved notes of the prelude in D flat. She practised, always, on the upright piano in the morning-room; but when Tante was at home and left the grand piano open she often played on that. It was a privilege rarely to be resisted and to-day she sat down and played the fugue through, still very softly. Then, covering the keys, she shut the lid and looked more carefully about the room. Flowers and books were everywhere. Mrs. Talcott arranged flowers beautifully; Karen recognized her skilful hand in the tall branches of budding green standing high in a corner, the glasses of violets, the bowls of anemones and the flat dishes of Italian earthenware filled with primroses. On a table lay a pile of manuscript; she knew Mr. Drew's small, thick handwriting. A square silver box for cigarettes stood near by; it was marked with Mr. Drew's initials in Tante's hand. How kind she was to that young man; but Tante had always been lavish with those of whom she was fond.