"Then he hasn't shown unseemly eagerness--it's nearly six months since he left. What does he say?--anything exciting?" "Exciting for him. Von Gleichroeder is giving a pupils' concert at the Bechstein, and Mr. Furlonger is going to play." "A solo?" "Yes--something by Scriabin. He's only had six months' teaching, but von Gleichroeder's so pleased with him that he's going to let him play at this concert of his. Then he'll finish his course, and then he'll start professionally." "Good Lord!--it sounds thrilling for an ex-convict. Let's see his letter." "Here it is. No," changing suddenly, "I think I'd rather read it to you." "Right-O! Excuse a smile." "Don't be an idiot, Awdrey. Now listen; he says: 'Von Gleichroeder's concert is fixed for the twenty-seventh'--why, that's next Friday--'and it's been settled that I'm to play Scriabin's second Prelude. It sounds like cats fighting, but it's exciting stuff. Von Gleichroeder is tremendously keen on the ultra-moderns--nothing makes him madder than to hear Verdi or Gounod or Rossini. So I play d'Indy and Stravinsky and Strauss and Sibelius; except when I'm alone in my digs--and then I have the old tunes out, for I like them best.'" She did not read the next paragraph aloud. "I've been having a hard fight for it, Tony--but I'm pulling through. Music has helped me, and the memory of our friendship, and the thought that you're trying to understand me and forgive me." "Well, I wish him luck," said Awdrey; "what a good thing von Gleichroeder found him out!" "Yes, he'll have his chance now--his chance of a decent life." "Nonsense, Tony! That's not what he's after--fame and dibs, my dear girl, fame and dibs." "He told me he was accepting von Gleichroeder's offer because he wanted to be--good." "Well, London's a queer place to go for that." "He's gone there to work. He had no chance here." "More chance than he'll have there--you bet he's painted the place pretty red by this time." Her sister was about to retort sharply, when a man suddenly came round the corner of the house towards them. "Awdrey!" cried Tony, springing up. "Here's Quentin!" CHAPTER II THE LETTER THAT DID NOT COME The door was wide open at Sparrow Hall, and a square of sunshine lay on the kitchen floor. In the little flower-stuffed garden bees were humming lazily, and a thrush was singing in the last of the laburnum. Tangles of roses trailed over the farm-house walls, they hung round the window-frames, darkening the rooms, and over the door, sending faint perfumes to Janey as she sat in the kitchen.