Both of them found that they could not even read for pleasure; and so the undisturbed hours of the day were passed in talk and in music. Mrs. Meadows’s piano had suffered under the fingers and thumbs of countless guests; but Edwin and Boyce shared the cost of a tuner and worked together through the Wagner scores and the subtler treasures that lay hidden in the songs of Hugo Wolf. They had few visitors, for this community of taste had already begun to isolate them from their student friends; but Boyce’s father, the poet, often came to have tea with them and to share their music, a man as versatile and sanguine as Meredith’s Roy Richmond, and yet so versed in every variety of knowledge and so reverent of beauty that Edwin felt there was no such company in the world: one who took all beauty and knowledge for his province. One afternoon a message came to the house in Easy Row from the hospital, and as Mrs. Meadows was engaged in some obscure adjustment of her toilet, Edwin went to the door to receive it. He took the message, and was returning when another figure appeared on the path. It was that of a young girl of his own age, or, perhaps, a little older, and she hurried forward when she saw that he was closing the door. He waited. “You weren’t going to shut me out, were you?” she said. She smiled, and Edwin saw that her eyes were of a warm hazel such as sunshine reveals in peaty river water. Before them Edwin found himself blushing. “No, indeed,” he said. “Do you want Mrs. Meadows? I’ll go and tell her.” “Mrs. Meadows? This is thirty-seven, isn’t it?” “Yes . . . thirty-seven.” “I’ve come to see my friend, Miss Latham. She’s lodging here.” “I’m so sorry. Of course. I expect she’s in the front room.” “Thank you.” She spoke very demurely. He stood aside to let her pass and with her a faint fragrance of white rose. By this time Miss Latham herself had emerged, a blowsy woman who was taking a small part in the Christmas pantomime at the theatre, and had introduced herself to the friends through Mrs. Meadows a few days before. “Why, Rosie, my dear, isn’t this just sweet of you? Fancy finding you on the step flirting with Doctor . . . Dr. Ingleby! That’s right, isn’t it?” “Oh, what a shame, Hetty! We weren’t, were we?” Ingenuously she turned her eyes on Edwin again. Were they hazel? Perhaps they were almost amber. A matter of light . . . “No . . . I’m afraid we weren’t. She didn’t give us time.” “Two doctors in the house! Think of that!” said Miss Hetty Latham, whose conversation habitually ran from one note of exclamation to another. “Imagine how safe we feel, Rosie!” And Rosie surveyed Edwin seriously. “Aren’t you awfully young?” “I suppose I am rather. I’m not qualified yet. But I expect to be next week.” “Then you must be awfully clever too—” “What on earth are we all doing talking here in the passage? Come along in and have a cup of tea,” said Miss Latham boisterously.