Lady Milmo went to the piano. She had a dainty taste in music, and having lately added an obscure but colossal Herzigovinan rhapsodist to her menagerie, found intense delight in his compositions. He was only two and twenty and had already reached op. 236. This Lady Milmo began to play, while Roderick self-sacrificingly turned over the leaves. Sylvester exchanged commonplace remarks with Ella. The consciousness of the task he had undertaken somewhat weighed upon him. He was to break off the marriage. How? Only by fair means. A man of scrupulous honour, he characterised as foul any secret investigations into Roderick's financial position or past career. Nor could he asperse Roderick's character while maintaining with him a semblance of friendly relations. To declare open war would be foolish. He could do nothing but bide his opportunity. Meanwhile he was less than ever at his ease with Ella. She, however, interpreted his constraint as contemptuous indifference, and once more she longed for battle. The memory of her humiliation on the night of Lady Milmo's reception only made her irritation more unbearable. A chance remark about his father gave her the longed for opportunity to stab. “I suppose you know Uncle Matthew's health is failing,'' she said suddenly. “I am afraid so,” he said. “Then why aren't you by his side to take care of him? Since you left he has been gradually breaking down. Neglect is killing him.” Sylvester curled the ends of his moustache and regarded her impassively. “You are trying to hurt me,” he said. “I do not neglect my father.” “No. You are a paragon of all the excellences. If you had some infirmities, you might be a better and a happier man.” “I do not believe in the new doctrine of the saving quality of evil,” he replied. “I am of the old-fashioned opinion that evil taints the character, blunts the moral sense, and comes out sooner or later in evil actions.” “You talk like a Sunday-school tract,” said Ella, with a short laugh. “But I was speaking of Uncle Matthew--” “I should like to speak of him too,” said Sylvester, curtly. “Your engagement is a great unhappiness to him. He loves you like his own daughter. You know that. If you had consulted him beforehand, perhaps it would have been kinder. What his reasons are for wishing it broken off I do not know, but you may be quite certain they are good ones.” Ella looked across the room to the piano where the Herzigovinan rhapsody was in full tumult of crashing chords, and then edged nearer Sylvester on the couch where they were sitting. “Are you aware that you are committing an impertinence in speaking to me like that?” she said in an undertone. “How dare you? I acknowledge Uncle Matthew as my guardian. But you--what right have you to touch upon my affairs? What concern can you have in them?” “Absolutely none,--personally. But my father is dear to me. If I could break off your engagement to please him, I should do so.” “Are you going to try?”