“I dont wish to intrude where I have no business,” said Conolly quietly to the clergyman; “but I can play that lady’s accompaniment, if she will allow me.” The clergyman was too much afraid of Conolly by this time—he did not know why—to demur. “I am sure she will not object,” he said, pretending to be relieved by the offer. “Your services will be most acceptable. Excuse me for one moment, whilst I inform Miss Lind.” He crossed the room to the lady, and said in a lower tone, “I think I have succeeded in arranging the matter, Marian. That man says he will play for you.” “I hope he _can_ play,” said Marian doubtfully. “Who is he?” “It is Conolly. Jasper’s man.” Miss Lind’s eyes lighted. “Is that he?” she whispered, glancing curiously across the room at him. “Bring him and introduce him to us.” “Is that necessary?” said the tall man, without lowering his voice sufficiently to prevent Conolly from hearing him. The clergyman hesitated. “It is quite necessary: I do not know what he must think of us already,” said Marian, ashamed, and looking apprehensively at Conolly. He was staring with a policemanlike expression at the tall man, who, after a vain attempt to ignore him, had eventually to turn away. The Rev. Mr. Lind then led the electrician forward, and avoided a formal presentation by saying with a simper: “Here is Mr. Conolly, who will extricate us from all our difficulties.” Miss McQuinch nodded. Miss Lind bowed. Marmaduke shook hands good-naturedly, and retired somewhat abashed, thrumming his banjo. Just then a faint sound of clapping was followed by the return of the quartet party, upon which Miss Lind rose and moved hesitatingly toward the platform. The tall man offered his hand. “Nonsense, Sholto,” said she, laughing. “They will expect you to do something if you appear with me.” “Allow _me_, Marian,” said the clergyman, as the tall man, offended, bowed and stood aside. She, pretending not to notice her brother, turned toward Conolly, who at once passed the Rev. George, and led her to the platform. “The original key?” he enquired, as they mounted the steps. “I dont know,” she said, alarmed. For a moment he was taken aback. Then he said, “What is the highest note you can sing?” “I can sing A sometimes—only when I am alone. I dare not attempt it before people.” Conolly sat down, knowing now that Miss Lind was a commonplace amateur. He had been contrasting her with his sister, greatly to the disparagement of his home life; and he was disappointed to find the lady break down where the actress would have succeeded so well. Consoling himself with the reflexion that if Miss Lind could not rap out a B flat like Susanna, neither could she rap out an oath, he played the accompaniment much better than Marian sang the song. Meanwhile, Miss McQuinch, listening jealously in the green-room, hated herself for her inferior skill. “Cool, and reserved, is the modern Benjamin Franklin,” observed Marmaduke to her.