He had amused himself, of late, by imaging his relation to her in the fable of the sun and the traveller. Her beams from their high, sublime solitudes had filled him with delight and exhilaration. Then the radiance had concentrated itself, had begun to follow him--rather in the manner of stage sunlight--very unflaggingly. He had wished for intervals of shade. He had been aware, even during his long absence in America, of sultriness brooding over him, and now, at these close quarters, he had begun to throw off his cloak of allegiance. She bored him. It wasn't good enough. She pretended to be sublime and far; but she wasn't sublime and far; she was near and watchful and exacting; as watchful and exacting as a mistress and as haughty as a Diana. She was not, and had, evidently, no intention of being, his mistress, and for the mere pleasure of adoring her Mr. Drew found the price too high to pay. He did not care to proffer, indefinitely, a reverent passion, and he did not like people, when he showed his weariness, to lose their tempers with him. Already Madame von Marwitz had lost hers. He did not forget what she looked like nor what she said on these occasions. She had mentioned the large-mouthed children at Wimbledon--facts that he preferred to forget as much as possible--and he did not know that he forgave her. There was a tranquil malice in realizing that as Madame von Marwitz became more and more displeasing to him, Mrs. Jardine, more and more, became pleasing. A new savour had come into his life since her appearance and he had determined to postpone a final rupture with his great friend and remain on for some time longer at Les Solitudes. He wondered if it would be possible to awaken Mrs. Jardine. "Haven't I heard you practising, once or twice lately?" he asked her now, as they turned at the end of the terrace and walked back. "Yes," said Karen; "I practise every morning." "I'd no idea you played, too." "It is hardly a case of 'too', is it," Karen said, mildly amused. "I don't know. Perhaps it is. One may look at a Memling after a Michael Angelo, you know. I wish you'd play to me." "I am no Memling, I assure you." "You can't, until I hear you. Do play to me. Brahms; a little Brahms." "I have practised no Brahms for a long time. I find him too difficult." "I heard you doing a Bach prelude yesterday; play that." "Certainly, if you wish it, I will play it to you," said Karen, "though I do not think that you will much enjoy it." Mrs. Talcott was in the morning-room over accounts; so Karen went with the young man into the music-room and opened the grand piano there. She then played her prelude, delicately, carefully, composedly. She knew Mr. Drew to be musicianly; she did not mind playing to him.