The concert was to be held at the Town-hall half-an-hour later. They entered a fly in waiting, and secure from recognition, were driven leisurely in that direction, Picotee silent and absorbed with her own thoughts. 'There's the Cathedral,' said Lord Mountclere humorously, as they caught a view of one of its towers through a street leading into the Close. 'Yes.' 'It boasts of a very fine organ.' 'Ah.' 'And the organist is a clever young man.' 'Oh.' Lord Mountclere paused a moment or two. 'By the way, you may remember that he is the Mr. Julian who set your song to music!' 'I recollect it quite well.' Her heart was horrified and she thought Lord Mountclere must be developing into an inquisitor, which perhaps he was. But none of this reached her face. They turned in the direction of the Hall, were set down, and entered. The large assembly-room set apart for the concert was upstairs, and it was possible to enter it in two ways: by the large doorway in front of the landing, or by turning down a side passage leading to council-rooms and subsidiary apartments of small size, which were allotted to performers in any exhibition; thus they could enter from one of these directly upon the platform, without passing through the audience. 'Will you seat yourselves here?' said Lord Mountclere, who, instead of entering by the direct door, had brought the young women round into this green-room, as it may be called. 'You see we have come in privately enough; when the musicians arrive we can pass through behind them, and step down to our seats from the front.' The players could soon be heard tuning in the next room. Then one came through the passage-room where the three waited, and went in, then another, then another. Last of all came Julian. Ethelberta sat facing the door, but Christopher, never in the least expecting her there, did not recognize her till he was quite inside. When he had really perceived her to be the one who had troubled his soul so many times and long, the blood in his face--never very much--passed off and left it, like the shade of a cloud. Between them stood a table covered with green baize, which, reflecting upwards a band of sunlight shining across the chamber, flung upon his already white features the virescent hues of death. The poor musician, whose person, much to his own inconvenience, constituted a complete breviary of the gentle emotions, looked as if he were going to fall down in a faint. Ethelberta flung at Lord Mountclere a look which clipped him like pincers: he never forgot it as long as he lived. 'This is your pretty jealous scheme--I see it!' she hissed to him, and without being able to control herself went across to Julian. But a slight gasp came from behind the door where Picotee had been sitting. Ethelberta and Lord Mountclere looked that way: and behold, Picotee had nearly swooned.