She smiled acquiescence. Colin's words had power to set her thinking. She did not know how rarely he opened out like this; how studiously his true self was hidden. In Giles she saw the reserve of a man habitually silent; but she had not divined in Colin the deeper reserve of an apparent frankness which told nothing. Once in a way he was really frank with Phyllys; but she was almost the sole exception. He could seldom bring to the surface those things for which he most cared. He murmured another quotation: "'Nature is a poem written by God; and Art is man's translation of it!' "I forget who said that. But if Nature is a Divine poem, the least we can do is to try to read it." Phyllys repeated the words to herself. "I wonder whether all sculptors feel as you do?" she questioned. "I was not speaking from the sculptor's point of view." His voice had altered, becoming indifferent. Without looking up Phyllys knew that he and she were no longer alone. Mrs. Keith had appeared, and was in one of her restless moods. She had not known that Colin meant to come down, and the fact seemed to annoy her. She could not sit still, but fidgeted from chair to chair, talking without a break. There was a draught from the oriel window, and would Colin mind its being shut? No, she really couldn't have any window open. It was so chilly. If he wanted more air, why did he not stay in the study? Mr. Dugdale would be in directly, and Mr. Dugdale was such a fatiguing person, particularly if one was ill. But Colin never took advice, as all the world knew—much better for him if he would. All this and more was endured with a calm which Phyllys had once taken for unshakeable serenity. She knew better now. She had learnt to decipher the dent in his forehead, the compression of his under-lip, the increased slowness of the dragging voice; and this evening his self-control was more severely tested than usual, from weakness. But Mrs. Keith, whose one aim was to separate those two, to have Phyllys as a "close preserve" for Giles, saw nothing. She fidgeted and fussed till the door opened. "Here they come!" And she started up. "Now we must have some music. I want Phyllys to play the Moonlight Sonata." Giles interposed in curt tones, "Not to-night. Colin can't stand it." Colin frowned slightly. "Pray make no difference for me," he said. "If you do, I must decamp." "But we don't want music. Nobody wants it. We all want to talk," urged Phyllys. She greeted Giles with a smile, and he came to her side, not speaking. Mrs. Keith was insisting energetically on music. Phyllys played so well, and she and Giles loved listening. Colin would not mind, she knew. "Of course not. Shall I get the sonata?" asked Colin. "Nonsense!" There was a roughness in the "timbre" of Giles' voice which Phyllys had heard before, and it always surprised her. "You must keep still."