The child would sing to herself at times the beautiful lines of the _Ave Maria_ that Gounod has set to Bach’s Fugue, just as she would lilt a nursery rhyme; but the learning of it was an early reminiscence of her father in his cups, moved to song. Her prayers, on going to bed at night, were just a part of her duty in putting off her clothes--it warmed and coloured the child’s imagination, was the full stop to her day, but it was quite aloof from the conduct of the world. From Modeyne the child had inherited remarkable charm of manner as well as much of her dainty delicacy.... The hat and jacket being arranged to her taste, the child went and sat down beside Noll, and presided over the hospitalities. She apologized for the thickness of the bread and butter, but she said it was her last meal of the day, and she was always hungry for it. She remembered she had some cake, and tripped off to the cupboard; but her face fell when she took the fragment out of its carefully enwrapping silver-paper. “I got it nearly a month ago--for my father’s birthday,” she said simply. “I’m afraid it’s gone dry.” “I like it all rubbly best,” said Noll--“it tastes so nutty.” He deceived the child into a smile. In any case he was in the caterpillar stage of youth. They ate it between them. “It _is_ rather nutty,” she said. “I never noticed that before.” Childhood takes the world for granted. As the two went cheerily down the stairs and out into the street, the boy’s heart lightened; the gnawing sense of loneliness that had oppressed him fell from him, and the stucco street turned to a way of palaces in the grey of the twilight. CHAPTER V _Wherein Miss Betty Modeyne is introduced to the Study of Nature_ As they stood on the doorstep, waiting for the answer to their ring at Netherby Gomme’s bell, Betty broke a pensive silence: “I have never spoken to an author,” she said. She had not imagined the spring of literature as running in so dingy a well. Noll pshawed airily: “I’ve known a lot,” said he. “They’re just like everybody else, except when they think they are not--and then they are beastly tedious.” The door was opened by the grim old lady who was mother to Netherby Gomme. Her, Noll saluted cheerily. The old lady shook hands with him and darted a jealous look at the girl. Noll explained: “I have brought a friend of mine,” said he--“Miss Betty Modeyne.” The old lady bowed stiffly to the child. Noll took off his hat: “I suppose Netherby is in?” he said, calmly walking into the passage; and the child followed him. The old lady shut the outer door: “Yes,” she said--“he’s about finished work by this, I think.” “Don’t you trouble to come up, Mrs. Gomme,” said Noll airily, opening the sitting-room door with elaborate formality for the old lady; “I know the way up, don’t I?” She smiled. The light suddenly snapped out of her shrewd eyes again--she glanced sharply at the girl: “I suppose,” said she, “the little lady will remain with me?”