In spite, however, of these new lights on the mystery, or craft, of money-making, which were of little use to Mr. Haveril's guests, the conversation languished. The elder lady was pensive and sad; the marvels and miracles of the _chef_ were thrown away upon her; she looked as if she longed to be upstairs again, lying on her sofa, looking out upon the full tide of human life surging round Charing Cross. After dinner they took coffee in their private room. "Now," said Dick, taking out his violin, "I want to play something that will please you, Mrs. Haveril." He began to tune his instrument, talking the while. "Molly thinks that you would like a little foolish entertainment that I sometimes give--a descriptive piece. The fiddle describes, I only explain with a word or two, and Molly plays an accompaniment." Molly took her place and waited. "You must understand what we are going to talk about, first of all, otherwise you will understand nothing. Very good. I am just a strolling player, or a musician, as you please; I carry my fiddle with me, and I am on tramp. In my pocket there is no money. I earn my bed, and my supper, and my breakfast, with the fiddle and the bow. I take any odd jobs that I can get at country theatres, or at music-halls, or taverns, or anything. My girl is with me, of course. She can sing a little, and dance a little, so that on occasion we are prepared with a little show of our own. We carry no luggage except a bag with a few necessaries. It is my business to carry the bag. My girl carries the fiddle, which is lighter. Now you understand." At the mention of the word "tramp," Mrs. Haveril, who had composed herself to quiet meditation at the window while the others talked, sat up and turned her head. "So," Dick struck a chord--a bold, loud chord, which compelled the mind to listen. "We are on the road," he went on, talking in a monotone with murmurous voice, which became subordinated to the music, so that one heard the latter and forgot the former, insomuch that the music seemed by itself, and without any aid, to bring the scene before the eyes. It was the work of a magician. Molly played a running accompaniment which helped the illusion, if it added nothing more. Dick watched that one of his audience whom he desired to hold. After a little her eyes dropped; she sat with clasped hands, listening, carried away--enchanted by the sorcerer. "We are on the road," he went on, "the broad, high-road, with banks of turf at the side. There is nobody else upon the road. We swing along; we sing as we go; it is morning; the village is behind us; another village is before us; we pick flowers from the hedge; we listen to the lark in the sky; and we catch the voice of the blackbird from the wood; we sit down in the shade when we are tired; we dine resting on a stile. The air is fresh and sweet; the flowers are all aflame in hedge and meadow."