"Can any wrong ever be really righted?" she demanded bitterly. "We have to pay for our mistakes--each in our turn." He himself had paid to the uttermost farthing. "Is it a very heavy price, Nan?" She turned her face away a little. "It will be . . . higher than I expected," she acknowledged slowly. "Well, then, pay up. Don't make--Roger--pay for your blunder. You have other things--your music, for instance. Many people have to go through life with only their work for company. . . . Whereas you are Roger's whole world." With the New Year Lord St. John returned to town. Nan missed him every minute of the day, but she had drawn new strength and steadfastness from his kindly counsels. He understood both the big tragedies of life--which often hold some brief, perfect memory to make them bearable--and those incessant, gnat-like irritations which uncongenial fellowship involves. Somehow he had the faculty of relegating small personal vexations to their proper place in the scheme of things--thrusting them far into the background. It was as though someone drew you to the window and, ignoring the small, man-made flower-beds of the garden with their insistent crop of weeds, the circumscribed lawns, and the foolish, twisting paths that led to nowhere, pointed you to the distant landscape where the big breadths of light and shadow, the broad draughtmanship of God, stretched right away to the dim blue line of the horizon. CHAPTER XX THE CAGE DOOR For the first few days succeeding Lord St. John's departure from Trenby Hall, matters progressed comparatively smoothly. Then, as his influence waned with absence, the usual difficulties reappeared, the old hostilities--hostilities of outlook and generation--arising once more betwixt Nan and Lady Gertrude. Mutual understanding is impossible between two people whose sense of values is fundamentally opposed, and music, the one thing that had counted all through Nan's life, was a matter of supreme unimportance to the older woman. She regarded it--or, indeed, any other form of art, for that matter--as amongst the immaterial fripperies of life, something to be put aside at any moment in favour of social or domestic duties. It signified even less to her than it did to Eliza McBain, to whom it at least represented one of the lures of Satan--and for this reason could not be entirely discounted. Since Sandy's stimulating visit Nan had devoted considerable time to the composition of her concerto, working at it with a recrudescence of her old enthusiasm, and the work had been good for her. It had carried her out of herself, preventing her from dwelling continually upon the past. Unfortunately, however, the hours she spent in the seclusion of the West Parlour were not allowed to pass without comment. "It seems to take you a long time to compose a new piece," remarked Isobel at dinner one day, the trite expression "new piece" very evidently culled from her school-day memories.