“It is not that,” said young Purcell, shrinking a little; “you can’t think that I would leave you only for my advantage. No, master, it is not that. You must hear it all before you judge.” “Certainly,” said the Signor. He kept the same smile rigid upon his face. “And in the meantime here is old Pick with the tea,” he added, “and we must drink it for the sake of his feelings. What, Pick, is it made already? I don’t think your mother can be so careful as usual, boy, about her brew.” “I don’t put no faith in tea that stands long to draw, sir,” said Pick. “I like it myself with all the scent in it. Water as boils hard, and not a minute lost. That’s my maxim. It’s fresh made with plenty of tea in, and I’ll warrant it good. Smell that,” he said, taking off the lid of the teapot. The Signor listened to him quietly, taking no notice of Purcell’s impatience. He smiled on the old man and let him talk. He was wounded and offended by his pupil’s sudden change after the decision of an hour ago; and though he had a great desire to hear what reason could be given for this difference of feeling, his annoyance and disgust at the change found expression in this apparent carelessness of it. He kept Pick talking with secret malice, while Purcell fretted. The young fellow did not know how to contain himself. He collected the music-books that were on the piano, and put them back on the shelves. Then he took them down again; he shifted the candles; he roamed from corner to corner, moving the chairs about, throwing into disorder the things on the table; now and then he cast a piteous look at his master; but the Signor sat, in serene malice sounding the bass notes in his accompaniment, putting artful questions to old Pickering, and leading him on to talk. It was the old man himself at length who brought the suspense to an end by recollecting something it was necessary for him to do. “They’d have kep’ me there all night,” he said to Mrs. Purcell, with pretended impatience, as he got back to the housekeeper’s room. “Dear!” said Mrs. Purcell, astonished; she could not understand how the Signor could waste time talking to old Pick at a moment so momentous for her John. When old Pickering was gone, the Signor still said nothing. He turned to the piano and began to play; he was like a woman offended, who will not approach the subject on which she is dying to be informed. At last Purcell, approaching humbly with wistful eyes, ventured to put one hand lightly upon his arm. “Master,” said the young man, “let me speak to you. I cannot do anything till I have spoken to you.” “To me, boy? Speak then, as much as you please,” said the Signor, nodding at him with an air of ingenuous wonder while he rang out the end of the melody. “’Twas in the time of roses,” he sang; then swinging himself round on his stool, “You want to speak to me? Why didn’t you say so sooner? Speak then, I am all attention,” he said.