"But it is a duet," she said, smiling at him as an elder sister might have smiled at a brother she wished to encourage, and who had just made another mistake. "Yes," he said hastily; "but I can take up first one voice and then the other, and when it comes to the duet part the piano will hide the want of the second voice." "Or I can play it where necessary," said Millicent, who began to brighten up. Perhaps this was not going to be such a dismal failure after all. "To be sure," he said: "if you will. There, I think that will do. Pray excuse me if I seem terribly nervous," he whispered. "Oh! don't apologise, Mr Bayle. We are all friends here. I do not mind. I was thinking of you." "Thank you," he said hastily. "You are very kind. Shall we begin?" "Yes, I am ready," said Millicent, glancing involuntarily at Hallam, who was still conversing with Trampleasure, his face perfectly calm, but his eyes wearing a singular look of triumph. "One moment. Would you mind sounding D?" Millicent obeyed, and Bayle blew a tremulous note upon the flute nearly a quarter of a tone too sharp. This necessitated a certain amount of unscrewing and lengthening which made the drops glisten upon Bayle's forehead. "Poor fellow!" thought Millicent, "how nervous he is! I wish he were not going to play." "I think that will do," he said at last, after blowing one or two more tremulous notes. "Shall we begin?" Millicent nodded, giving him a smile of encouragement, and after whispering, "Don't mind me, I'll try and keep to your time," she ran over the prelude, and shivered as the flute took up the melody and began. It has been said that the flute, of all instruments, most resembles the human voice, and to Millicent Luttrell it seemed to wail here piteously how it knew a bank whereon the wild thyme grew. Her hands were moist from sympathy for the flautist, and she was striving to play her best with the fullest chords so as to hide his weakness, when, as he went on, it seemed to her that Bayle was forgetting the presence of listeners and growing interested in the beautiful melody he played. The notes of the flute became, moment by moment, more rich and round; they were no longer spasmodic, beginning and ending clumsily, but were breathed forth softly, with a crescendo and diminuendo where necessary, and so full of feeling that the pianiste was encouraged. She, too, forgot the listeners, and yielding to her love of her art, played on. The slow, measured strains were succeeded by the florid runs; but she never wondered whether the flautist would succeed, for they were amongst them before she knew they were _so_ near, with the flute seeming to trip deftly over the most difficult passages without the slightest hesitation, the audience thoroughly enjoying the novel performance, till the final chord was struck, and followed by a hearty round of applause. "Oh! Mr Bayle," cried Millicent, looking up in his flushed face, "I am so glad."