He had a clear cut face, ascetic would describe it, only women novelists are credited with adoring that word. It was not the face of a musician at all, at least it had not the liquid dreaming eyes, and wide, massive, brow framed in wavy hair that we conjure up generally when we speak of a musician's face. It was monkish rather, the lips were clean shaved and somewhat severe, the hair very short and dark, and the eyes just now merely thoughtful. They were brown in colour, almost black on occasion, and had perhaps even more variety of expression than most people's eyes. In figure he was rather below the average height but he bore himself easily. 'I would rather you spoke to your husband, Mrs Armitage, before the programmes are printed,' he said, unconsciously making chords with his fingers on the window ledge. It had occurred to him that perhaps it was rather a bold step for his pupil to be contemplating a public appearance without her husband's knowledge. 'Not for _any_ consideration,' Dot said with great decision. 'All I am living for is the programme surprise. He shall know two days before the concert, not a second sooner.' Wooster played a chromatic scale with his thumb and second finger till he found the dust on the ledge made them unclean. He pocketed them and turned round. 'He may consider I am abusing my privileges in preparing to bring you out like this,' he said. But Dot cried, 'Nonsense,' with haste and impatience. 'It is the last thing he would think of,' she said; 'why, he will be delighted, of course. He does not dream he has a wife talented enough to sing in the Centennial Hall before a mighty audience of all musical Sydney.' 'Then you really will not tell him?' 'Is there a stronger word than "No?" One absolute and irrevocable? If there is, consider it said.' He laughed. 'Suppose my nervous prudence makes me present him with the bagged cat.' 'In that case,' said Dot, 'I should take my revenge in flat A's. Have you no regard for me?' He forgot the dust and played another slow scale. CHAPTER VIII PICTURES IN THE FIRE 'A rain and a ruin of roses Over the red rose land.' May had come in wet and blustering. The gum trees waved wild mournful arms up to dull skies, the cottage garden was flowerless, green, and dripping. Even the creeping roses that bloomed eternally, hung crushed and wet or dropped their poor spoiled petals on the spongy paths.