"Good gracious, what is that?" cried Leofwin. Nancy sped to the door of the music room, while strange and crashing harmonies rang through the house. "Stop, Harry. Stop that dreadful noise. You mustn't do that. Some one is calling on me. I think you had better go out and play, anyway." "Oh, please, Auntie, please let me play the scales some more. Just for fifteen minutes." It would have taken a heart of flint to withstand such pleading. Nancy left the musician and went boldly back to her visitor. Leofwin was plainly annoyed by the interruption. He should now have to start all over again, and starting was difficult. As Nancy reappeared, however, the clouds rolled from his brow. "Is everything quite all right?" he asked solicitously. "Quite all right, thank you." "Well, in speaking just now of the Libyan grotto, I think I probably suggested the theme of my visit to you this afternoon. I confess, I am a passionate man. Things of the senses appeal to me more than to most; it is, of course, the artist within me. I am like a mountain torrent or the beetling crest of an ocean comber rushing, full-bodied, down upon--upon--the floor." He came to a full stop and stared with pursed lips at the object of his love, sitting unhappily before him. What the devil _do_ mountain torrents and ocean combers rush down upon? Nothing as domestic, surely, as a floor. The thing was unhappily met. "Please, Mr. Balch," said Nancy, rising, "please don't go any further. I really can't listen to you." "Nancy," he cried, attempting to seize her hand. "I must call you 'Nancy.' I must call you more than that. With you by my side there will be nothing I cannot do. I shall make your name ring down the ages--like Madame Recamier, or--or, Mona Lisa. I already have planned a piece for us. You are to be Miranda, and I shall be Ferdinand. You are just emerging from your bath, and I am peering through the bushes at you----" The picture was such a dreadful one that Nancy could endure the situation no longer. From being anxious to let him down as easily as possible--for he was, after all, paying her a compliment--she wished the scene over at any cost. He was making the most holy of moments a travesty. She felt amazingly self-possessed. "I appreciate the honour of your intention, Mr. Balch"--the language was that of Jane Austen, whom she had just been reading--"but I cannot allow it to go on. In fact," she hastened to add, for he showed signs of going on, "I shall have to ask you to go." The D scale, laboriously achieved, floated in from the music room. Leofwin turned away and Nancy, standing aside for him, was dismayed to note that his little eyes were filled with sorrow and disappointment.