The girl was given a hearty encore, and her next song was a simple, humorous little ballad about a miller and a maid. It was charmingly sung and acted. The critic leaned back in his chair, and smiled at Philip with the indulgent air of the man who says: "I told you so." Soon Philip rose to go. "Good heavens, man, you do not intend to leave before Jowkacsy plays the suite in F minor?" queried his amazed acquaintance. "Sorry. I have an engagement." He quitted the hall, his tall figure riveting a good many eyes as he made his way toward an exit. One man, watching from the gallery, smiled cynically, and rose at the same time. Philip found the foyer to be practically deserted. He asked a policeman on duty to call Mr. Anson's carriage from the ranks, and a footman came, quickly running lest he had incurred a reprimand for not being on the lookout for his master at the entrance. In a very little time Miss Atherley appeared, and with her a handsome, elderly lady, who was quite obviously her mother. The girl was radiant. She never expected a cordial reception from a high-class audience, such as gathered to worship the violinist. "Mother dear," she cried, "this is Mr. Anson, who very kindly came to my assistance when a cabman gave me some trouble last night." Mrs. Atherley gave him a pleasant greeting, but turned to her daughter. "Why didn't you tell me of any dispute when you returned home? You know how nervous I am when you are out at night." The girl laughed merrily. "You have answered your own question, _carissima_. That is precisely why I did not tell you." "Miss Atherley was good enough to permit me to meet you here after the concert," put in Philip, "so that I might add my assurances to her own that the affair was of no consequence. It is early yet. Will you come with me for some supper, and thus give me a chance of telling you how much I enjoyed your daughter's singing?" Wise Philip, to pay court to the mother. Mrs. Atherley, in no way deceived, yet gratified by the deference shown to her, gave the girl a questioning glance. "Oh, do let us go, mamma! I am famished, I candidly admit it. Mr. Anson, I have subsisted since luncheon without a morsel." "We will be delighted----" began the older lady, but her attention was attracted by the footman holding open the door of the carriage. "Is that carriage yours?" she said to Philip. "Yes." "Where do we sup?" "At the Savoy." She flushed slightly. "Not the Savoy," she faltered. "Why not, mother?" cried the girl, spiritedly. "Mr. Anson, my mother does not care to meet associates of--of other days. I tell her she thinks far too much of these considerations. Why should she fear to face them simply because we are poor?" "I think, Mrs. Atherley," he said, quietly, "that you are very rich, far richer than many a _mère de famille_ we shall meet at the restaurant." This neat compliment turned the scale of the mother's hesitation. Indeed, she might well be proud of her beautiful daughter.