Perhaps later on she would analyze this feeling more thoroughly, and realize that she had reached a crisis in her life when an attractive man in the first flush of youth, and still possessing a freshness of view, and the enthusiasm of newly tried powers that had already won recognition from the world, stimulated that part of her nature that the atmosphere in which she lived tended to repress. But, for the moment, she had not stopped to ask herself why Richard Stoughton attracted her. She had simply given herself up to the fascination he had for her, and had left to the future the solution of the problem as to how far she should allow this fascination to influence her. “As a rebel,” remarked Richard earnestly, “I give you greeting. I think I understand your revolt.” “I know you do,” she exclaimed with enthusiasm. “You see, it is perfectly allowable for me to cultivate music as an accomplishment; but to take it seriously, to do something with it, to write songs that people outside of our circle will sing--that, you know, is bad form. I assure you, Mr. Stoughton, it took some courage to do it.” “But not to do it would have been a crime,” said Richard, puffing his cigar thoughtfully. “But a crime in the interest of the canons of good taste is not only allowable but imperative,” returned Mrs. Percy-Bartlett, smiling. “You must understand that there is a vast difference between having your name in the newspapers as being one of the best-dressed women at the Patriarchs’, and being referred to as a composer--both popular and promising.” “You mean that society would condemn you to die with all your music in you?” “Practically, yes; but I refused to obey the sentence. Therefore, I am a rebel.” She arose, and he followed her into the music-room. “Here’s a little thing,” she said, striking a few chords on the instrument, “that I have never sent to my publisher.” The chords ran into a weird, almost barbaric prelude. Then she began to sing. She had used the words of Heine’s little gem of crystallized unrest:-- “A pine-tree standeth lonely, On a far Norland height; It slumbereth, while around it The snow falls thick and white. And of a palm it dreameth That in a Southern land, Lonely and silent standeth Amid the drifting sand.” There was passion, protest, longing in the music, and the refrain died away and came again like the sobs of a broken heart. Richard bent over her and looked into her eyes, dark with unshed tears. His voice trembled as he whispered,-- “I am so sorry for you.” She arose and stood before him, a peculiar smile on her face.