They were disturbed in all these occupations by a step which came briskly downstairs, perhaps betokening, Pickering thought, that the Signor was going out again, and that his own delay about the lamps had been a wise instinct. But, after all, it was not the Signor’s step; it was young Purcell, who came along the little winding passage full of corners, and entered the housekeeper’s room, scattering the little party assembled there. Maryanne fled as a visitor from the outer world flies from the chamber of a servant of the court, at the advent of the queen. Though she would assure herself sometimes that Mrs. Purcell’s son was “no better nor me,” yet in his presence Maryanne recognised the difference. He was “the young master” even in Pick’s eyes, who stopped talking, and put the notes back once more upon the salver with a great air of business, as if in the act of hastening with them to the Signor. Mrs. Purcell was the only one who received her son with tranquillity. She turned her eyes upon him quietly, with a smile, with a serene pride which would not have misbecome an empress. No one in the house, not the Signor himself, had ascended to such a height of being as the housekeeper; no one else had produced such a son. “Go and light the candles in the study, Pick,” said young Purcell. “The Signor is in the dark, and he’s composing. Quick and carry him the lights. Don’t bother him with those letters now. He is doing something beautiful,” he said, turning to his mother. “There’s a phrase in it I never heard equalled. He has been sitting out on the terrace getting inspiration. I must run back and keep old Pick from disturbing him, making a noise----” “Stay a moment, Johnny, my own dear----” “What’s the matter, mother? Oh, I know; you’ve heard of this last offer. But if I take any I’ll take St. Ermengilde’s, where I could still go on living at home, the Signor says. It’s less money, but so long as I can help him and see _her_ now and again, and please you----” “Ah, John, your mother’s last; but that’s natural,” said Mrs. Purcell, shaking her head, “quite natural. I don’t complain. Is it another organ you’ve got the offer of? Well, to be sure! and there are folks that say merit isn’t done justice to! John, I’ve been hearing something,” said the housekeeper, putting out her hand to draw him to her; “something as perhaps you ought to know.” The young man looked at her eagerly. In this place he bore a very different aspect from that under which he had appeared to Lottie. Here it was he who was master of the situation, the centre of a great many hopes and wishes. He looked at her closely in the dusk, which made it hard to see what was in her face. He was a good son, but he was his mother’s social superior, and there was a touch of authority, even in the kindness of his voice.