Three days later Craighouse wrote another letter to Mr. Townsend. That gentleman read it with great interest, and noted particularly these passages: "They have a library, but nearly every book I have opened has uncut pages." "The daughter, Lady Dorothy Oaklands by name, is quite good-looking, but mentally and emotionally she is asleep." "The old boy showed me the portraits of his ancestors this morning. I made the mistake of asking what each one _did_. It appears that they merely _were_." "I am trying an experiment in feminine psychology--I am acting Pygmalion to Lady Dorothy's Galatea." "The earl appears to be very rich, but quite respectable." "We had some titled women to lunch to-day. I have at last found out what countesses talk about--how to secure exemption for their gardeners. It has quite done away with the former vice of gossip." "Lady Dorothy plays the piano rather nicely, but with no soul." "Have I mentioned the daughter, Lady Dorothy? She is refreshingly beautiful at times." "I do like the speaking voices of English women when they are not putting on side. Lady Dorothy has a contralto lilt in her voice that is rather pleasing." "Dinner is a tremendous affair. A prune may constitute a course, but nothing reduces the ritual performed by the high priest and his assistant." That evening Mr. Townsend looked over the table at his wife. "My dear," he said, "what happens when an American young man falls in love with the daughter of an English earl?" "Why, both families object, naturally," said the companion of his joys and sorrows. VIII It was the last evening before his departure, and Lady Dorothy had played for him for an hour; played little melodies from _La Bohème_, lesser gems from _Chu Chin Chow_, and twice had explored the delightful memories of Gilbert and Sullivan. Once he sang very softly to her accompaniment, and when they finished she turned abruptly to him. "You have a voice," she said. "You play beautifully," he answered. "It is easy to play when an artist is listening." "Have you found that, too?" She turned to the piano and softly fingered the opening strains of Rudolpho's aria in the first act of _La Bohème_. "It is just a matter of personality," he said softly. "One woman chokes a man's artistry; another reveals the heights which are in his soul. I suppose it is the same with men?" She played on in silence for a few moments, then murmured, "What happened to the statue when it came to life?" "You mean Galatea?" She nodded her head. "I don't know," he said pensively. "I have quite forgotten the ending." She went on playing, and in the soothing light of the music-room she made a picture that lingered for months in his memory. "Some day I will tell you," she said suddenly. "Here are mother and dad." That night, while in the act of disrobing, he heard the calm knock of Mr. Watkins at his door. "Come in," he said. "I am going at seven to-morrow morning." "Very good, sir."