"And, unless my memory plays me false, there was a distinct promise that this should not occur again. Perhaps a lady's promise--" "Possibly." The Count contented himself with a derisive laugh beneath his breath, and waited for her to speak again. This she did as she moved towards the other room. "I think five hundred pounds would suffice--at present. Agatha," she continued, raising her voice, "come and play the Count's accompaniment. He finds fault with me to-night." "No. I only suggested a little piu lento! You take it too fast." "Ah! Well, I want to talk to Luke. Come, Agatha." "I tremble at the thought of my own temerity," said Miss Ingham-Baker, as she seated herself on a music-stool with a great rustle of silks and considerable play of her white arms. "Are you bold?" inquired the Count, with impenetrable suavity. "I am--to attempt your accompaniments. I expect to be found fault with." "It will at all events be a novelty," he answered, setting the music in order. The Spaniard opened the music-book and indicated the page. Agatha dashed at it with characteristic confidence, and the voice of the violin came singing softly into the melody. It was a better performance than the last. Agatha's playing was much less correct, but as she went on she forgot herself, and she put something into the accompaniment which Mrs. Harrington had left out. It was not time, neither was it a stricter attention to the composer's instructions. It was only a possibility, after all. In the other room Mrs. Ingham-Baker slumbered still. Mrs. Harrington, unmoved in her grey silk dress, was talking with her usual incisiveness, and Luke was listening gravely. When the piece was done, Mrs. Harrington said over her shoulder-- "Go on. You get on splendidly together." And she returned to her conversation with Luke. The Count looked through his music. "How devoted she is to her nephews!" said Agatha, tapping the ivory keyboard with a dainty finger. "Yes." "And apparently to both alike." There was a little flicker beneath the Count's lowered eyelids. "Apparently so," he answered, with assumed hesitation. Agatha continued playfully, tapping the ivory notes with her middle finger--the others being gracefully curled. "You speak as if you doubted the impartiality." "I am happy to say I always doubt a woman's impartiality." She laughed and drew the stool nearer to the piano. It would have been easier to drift away into the conversational channel of vague generality which he opened up. He waited with some curiosity. "Do you think there is a preference?" she said, falling into his small trap. "Ah! There you ask me something that is beyond my poor powers of discrimination. Mrs. Harrington does not wear her feelings on her sleeve. She is difficult." "Very," admitted Agatha, with a little sigh. "I am naturally interested in the FitzHenrys," she went on after a little pause, with baffling frankness. "You see, we were children together."