When he came at last meekly creeping upstairs at Mrs. M'Intyre's heels, Patty was nowhere to be seen. He looked all round as he crossed the threshold, and took in the delicate air of cheerfulness, the almost austere simplicity and orderliness that characterised the little room, and made it quite different from any room he had ever seen; and then his heart sank, and a cloud of disappointment fell over his eager face. He braced himself to bear it. He made up his mind at once that he had had his share of luck for that day, and must not expect anything more. However, some minutes later, when Mrs. M'Intyre had made herself comfortable by unhooking her jacket, and untying her bonnet strings, and when Elizabeth was preparing to pour out the tea, Patty sauntered in with some needlework in her hand--stitching as she walked--and took a retired seat by the window. He seized upon a cup of tea and carried it to her, and stood there as if to secure her before she could escape again. As he approached she bent her head lower over her work, and a little colour stole into her face; and then she lifted herself up defiantly. "Here is your tea, Miss Patty," he said, humbly. "Thanks. Just put it down there, will you?" She nodded towards a chair near her, and he set the cup down on it carefully. But he did not go. "You are very busy," he remarked. "Yes," she replied, shortly. "I have wasted all the morning. Now I must try to make up for it." "Are you too busy to play something--presently, I mean, when you have had your tea? I must go and work too, directly. I should so enjoy to hear you play before I go." She laid her sewing on her knee, reached for her cup, and began to sip it with a relenting face. She asked him what kind of music he preferred, and he said he didn't care, but he thought he liked "soft things" best. "There was a thing you played last Sunday night," he suggested; "quite late, just before you went to bed. It has been running in my head ever since." She balanced her teaspoon in her hand, and puckered her brows thoughtfully. "Let me think--what was I playing on Sunday night?" she murmured to herself. "It must have been one of the _Lieder_ surely--or, perhaps, a Beethoven sonata? Or Batiste's andante in G perhaps?" "Oh, I don't know the name of anything. I only remember that it was very lovely and sad." "But we shouldn't play sad things in the broad daylight, when people want to gossip over their tea," she said, glancing at Mrs. M'Intyre, who was energetically describing to Elizabeth the only proper way of making tomato sauce. But she got up, all the same, and went over to the piano, and began to play the andante just above a whisper, caressing the soft pedal with her foot. "Was that it?" she asked gently, smiling at him as he drew up a low wicker chair and sat down at her elbow to listen. "Go on," he murmured gratefully. "It was _like_ that."