"Yes, if you like," she responded brightly. "The balcony sounds very tempting. And as for the philosophy, I can promise to listen--if I can't promise to understand." She smiled afresh, and crossed the wide room, Deerehurst following closely. As she passed the group of statuary and stepped through the open window, Serracauld struck a chord or two on the piano, and an instant later, his voice--a full strong voice, intensely passionate and youthful--drifted across the salon and out into the night. At the first note Clodagh halted, surprised and enchanted by the sound; and sinking silently into one of the balcony chairs, rested one arm on the iron railing. The music Serracauld sang was French, and possessed much of the distinction that marks that nation's art. The song was a hymn to life--and its indispensable coadjutors, youth and love; and it went with a peculiar lilt that stirred the blood and stimulated the fancy. He sang it as it should be sung--easily and arrogantly; for, as frequently happens with those who possess voices, he could express in music thoughts, ideas, and emotions that never crossed his own selfish, somewhat narrow soul. Clodagh, staring down into the dark waters in an attitude of wrapt attention, drank in the song to its last note; and as the final vibration died away, she looked round at Deerehurst with an expression infinitely softened and enhanced. "How beautiful!" she said. "Oh, how beautiful!" Deerehurst, who had seated himself beside her, leant forward and rested his own arm upon the balcony railing. "It is not the song that is beautiful, Mrs. Milbanke," he said, "but the thoughts it has wakened in you." Clodagh looked at him in silent question. She was still under the spell of the music, and saw nothing to resent in his cold gaze. "You were the instrument," he went on in the same lowered voice. "The notes were not played upon the piano, but upon your brain. Your brain is a network of sensitive strings, waiting to be played on by every factor in life--music, colour, sunshine, emotion----" His tone sank. Clodagh glanced quickly at his tall, thin figure, seated so close to her own, and at the wax-like, inscrutable face showing through the dusk. "You seem to know me better than I know myself," she said uncertainly. He watched her intently for a moment; then he leant forward, his long, pale fingers toying with the ribbon of his eyeglass. "I do know you better than you know yourself." She gave a little embarrassed laugh. "Then explain me to myself!" Again he seemed to study her; then he leant back in his chair with a decisive movement. "No!" he said--"no! Not now! In a year--or two--or even three, perhaps. But not now." She laughed again; and unconsciously a note of relief underran her laugh--a relief that, by a natural sequence of emotion, brought a fresh reaction to the coquetry of an hour ago. With a quick turn of the head, she looked up at him. "But how shall I find you in a year--or two--or three?"