But if Madame Koller’s performance was far out of the common run, so was that of her accompanist. He looked remarkably at home on the piano stool, and Colonel Berkeley rubbed his eyes and tried to recall if he had ever seen Ahlberg ornamenting a piano stool at a concert, but could not remember. When the last brilliant note and rich chord died away Miles Pembroke suddenly began to clap his knee loudly with his one remaining hand--which produced a furious hand clapping, in which everybody else vehemently and involuntarily joined, Mr. Cole feebly shouting “Bravo! Bravo!” Madame Koller started, and when the applause ceased, she seemed like one coming out of a dream. In the buzz of compliments that followed, Ahlberg’s voice cut in saying, “You were too dramatic.” Madame Koller had been receiving the compliments paid her with smiling grace, but at this, she cast a strange look on Ahlberg, nor would she sing again, although urged to do so. And presently it was time to leave, and Madame Koller and her escort departed in the little victoria which had come for them, the Colonel wrapping her up in innumerable furs to protect her from the sharp night air of November. When he returned to the drawing-room, Olivia and the clergyman and the Pembrokes were all standing around the blazing fire. The Colonel walked in, and squaring himself before the generous fireplace with his coat tails over his arm, surveyed the company and remarked, “Professional, by Jove.” “Now, papa,” said Olivia, taking him by the arm, “you are the best and kindest of men, but you shan’t say ‘professional, by Jove,’ of Madame Koller, the very minute she has quitted your house. You know how often I’ve told you of my rule that you shall not mention the name of a guest until twenty-four hours after that guest’s departure.” She said it with an air of authority, and tweaked the Colonel’s ear to emphasize her severity. “But I am not saying any harm about her, Olivia.” “Just what I expected,” groaned Mr. Cole. “Perhaps her voice gave out, and she quitted the stage early,” remarked Pembroke. “Not a word more,” cried Olivia sternly. “She sings delightfully. But--a--it _was_ rather prima donna-ish.” “Aha! Oho!” shouted the Colonel. “There you are, my dear!” CHAPTER IV. A WEEK or two after the dinner at Isleham, Pembroke sat in his office, one afternoon, at the county-seat, with a letter spread out before him. It was very thumbed and illiterate, and quite devoid of punctuation.