"It’s true," said the London girl. "And if a critic comes you treasure him, oh! you treasure him! There are seats and seats waiting for critics. This one poor man puts it as neatly as he can, Miss So-and-So sang "agreeably," then he rushes off to the most adjacent hall, and does the same for the next aspirant to musical honours." "And you immediately buy a book for press cuttings," quoth Isobel. "And only that poor one goes in." "You are the most depressing crowd I ever met," said Jean despairingly. "That’s not all," said the London girl. "After paying for the other performers, you may happen to find that they have already paid the agent in order to appear with you." "Oh, I believe a lot, but I won’t believe that," said Jean. "You may just as well," said the London girl, "because it happened to me. And it’s very good business for the agent." "Oh dear," cried Jean. "Do be silent about it then. With you in the house, do you think my father would ever allow me to give that concert." "I sincerely hope he won’t," said the London girl heartily. Betty sat looking very glum. "Why we should all be here discussing Jean’s career, when there are far more important things to think about, I can’t imagine. Jean, you might stop talking of your own affairs for once and help with Isobel’s. Here’s another box to be opened." Jean stood pulling at the string. "Still," she said obstinately, "if you have a voice and a fine method, and a man behind you like Slavska----" "Oh, put her out," wailed Betty. A chorus of "Put her out" ensued. Cuthbert, coming in in the midst of this, without asking for particulars, took Jean in his arms, and carried her off. "I think it’s perfectly miraculous the strength that comes to engaged people," said Betty simply. "Cuthbert couldn’t have moved Jean a few weeks ago." They both returned at that moment, looking warm but satisfied. "The pater is growling downstairs that he can’t get one of you to play to him nowadays," said Cuthbert. "There are to be no more weddings he says." "Oh, there never is to be no more anything," wailed Betty. "And I’m only half grown up. You’ve exhausted papa before one of you have done anything." "Well, let Jean go and rehearse her concert," remarked Isobel calmly. "I require a good accompanist," said Jean. Elma had been looking out at the window. She heard the gate open, to four minor notes, containing the augmented fourth of the opening to the Berlioz "King of Thule," which they all loved. Somebody had said "Oil that gate," and Mr. Leighton had objected because it reminded him of the "King of Thule." When Elma heard the magic notes, and looked out at the window, she could have dispensed with minor intervals for the rest of her existence. Mr. Symington was coming up the drive. Oh, Love of our Lives, and now this! She could at last recover from typhoid fever. "I don’t think any of you need go down to papa," said she. "There’s an old johnny come to see him."