Twice she laid her hands upon the keys only to snatch them away again as if they were white-hot metal, and Serviss fancied her cheek grew pale. The third time she clashed out a few jarring chords intermixed with quite astonishing roulade on the treble--an unaccountable interruption, as if a third hand had been thrust in to confuse her. She stopped, and he began to share her embarrassment. She tried again, shaking her head determinedly from side to side as if to escape some invisible annoying object. It seemed as if some mocking sprite in the instrument were laboring to make her every harmony a discord, and Serviss keenly regretted his insistence. Suddenly she sprang up with an impatient, choking cry. "I can't do it! He won't let me!" she passionately exclaimed, and rushed from the room leaving her visitor gazing with pity and amazement into the face of the mother, who seemed troubled but in no wise astounded by her daughter's hysterical action. She sat in silence--a painful silence, as if lacking words to express her thought; and Serviss rose, rebuked, and for the first time ill at ease. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Lambert; I didn't intend to embarrass your daughter." "She is very nervous--" "I understand. Being a complete stranger, I should not have insisted. One of the best singers I ever knew was so morbidly shy that on the platform she was an absolute failure. Her vocal chords became so contracted that she sang quite out of tune, and yet among friends she was magnificent." The mother's voice was quite calm. "It was not your fault, sir. Sometimes she's this way, even when her best friends ask her to play. That's why I fear she will never be able to perform in concerts--she is _liable_ to these break-downs." He was puzzled by something concealed in the mother's tone, and pained and deeply anxious to restore the peaceful charm of the home into which he had, in a sense, unbiddenly penetrated. "I am guilty--unpardonably guilty. I beg you to tell her that my request was something more than polite seeming--I was sincerely eager to hear her play. Perhaps at another time, when she has come to know me better, she will feel like trying again. I don't like to think that our acquaintance has ended thus--in discord. May I not come in again, now that I am, in a sense, explained?" He blundered on from sentence to sentence, seeking to soften the stern, straight line on the mother's lips--a line of singular repression, sweet but firm. "I wish you _would_ come again. I should really like your advice about Viola's future. Can't you come in this evening?" "I shall be very glad to do so. At what hour?" "At eight. Perhaps she will be able to play for you then." With a feeling of having blundered into a most unpleasant predicament, through a passing interest in a pretty girl, Serviss retreated to his hotel across the river. V PUPIL AND MASTER