“To the enmity of your new associates I am supremely indifferent, Marian. To that of your old friends I am accustomed. I am not in the mood to be lectured on my behavior at present; besides, the subject is hardly worth pursuing. May I gather from your remarks that I shall gratify you by withdrawing?” “Yes,” said Marian, flushing slightly, and looking steadily at him. Then, controlling her voice with an effort, she added, “Do not try again to browbeat me into telling you a falsehood, Sholto.” Douglas looked at her in surprise. Before he could answer, Miss McQuinch reappeared. “Well, Nelly,” said Marmaduke: “is there any piano left?” “Not much,” she replied, with a sullen laugh. “I never played worse in my life.” “Wrong notes? or deficiency in the sacred fire?” “Both.” “I believe your song comes next,” said the clergyman to Conolly, who had been standing apart, listening to Miss McQuinch’s performance. “Who is to accompany me, sir?” “Oh—ah—Miss McQuinch will, I am sure,” replied the Rev. Mr. Lind, smiling nervously. Conolly looked grave. The young lady referred to closed her lips; frowned; said nothing. Marmaduke chuckled. “Perhaps you would rather play your own accompaniment,” said the clergyman, weakly. Conolly shook his head decisively, and said, “I can do only one thing at a time, sir.” “Oh, they are not very critical: they are only workmen,” said the clergyman, and then reddened deeply as Marmaduke gave him a very perceptible nudge. “I’ll not take advantage of that, as I am only a workman myself,” said Conolly. “I had rather leave the song out than accompany myself.” “Pray dont suppose that I wish to be disagreeable, Mr. Lind,” said Miss McQuinch, as the company looked doubtfully at her; “but I have disgraced myself too completely to trust my fingers again. I should spoil the song if I played the accompaniment.” “I think you might try, Nell,” said Marmaduke, reproachfully. “I might,” retorted Miss McQuinch; “but I wont.” “If somebody doesnt go out and do something, there will be a shindy,” said Marmaduke. Marian hesitated a moment and then rose. “I am a very indifferent player,” she said; “but since no better is to be had, I will venture—if Mr. Conolly will trust me.” Conolly bowed. “If you would rather not,” said Miss McQuinch, shamed into remorse, “I will try the accompaniment. But I am sure to play it all wrong.” “I think Miss McQuinch had better play,” said Douglas. Conolly looked at Marian; received a reassuring glance; and went to the platform with her without further ado. She was not a sympathetic accompanist; but, not knowing this, she was not at all put out by it. She felt too that she was, as became a lady, giving the workman a lesson in courtesy which might stand him in stead when he next accompanied “Rose, softly blooming.” She was a little taken aback on finding that he not only had a rich baritone voice, but was, as far as she could judge, an accomplished singer.