Now, in spite of the spaciousness of the house in Formosa Terrace, it had only two reception-rooms, as the house-agents grandiloquently term them, and these, dining-room and drawing-room, were respectively occupied by Anton and Mrs. Kirilov engaged in their morning lessons. The passage where the young people stood was no fit place for lovers' meetings. "Let us go up to the _maestro's_. He's out," said Sonia. They did as they had often done in like circumstances. Indeed, the old man, before now, had given up his sitting-room to them, feigning an unconquerable desire to walk abroad. Were they not his children, dearer to him than anyone else in the world? So it was natural that they should make themselves at home in his tiny den. They sat and talked of the great victory, of the playing of the orchestra, of passages that he might take slower or quicker next time, of the ovation, of the mountain of congratulatory telegrams and letters that blocked up his rooms. They talked of Angelo Fardetti and his deep emotion and his pride. And they talked of the future, of their marriage which was to take place very soon. She suggested postponement. "I want you to be quite sure. This must make a difference." "Difference!" he cried indignantly. She waved him off and sat on the music-stool by the piano. "I must speak sensibly. You are one of the great ones of the musical world, one of the great ones of the world itself. You will go on and on. You will have all sorts of honours heaped on you. You will go about among lords and ladies, what is called Society--oh, I know, you'll not be able to help it. And all the time I remain what I am, just a poor little common girl, a member of a twopenny-halfpenny ladies' band. I'd rather you regretted having taken up with me before than after. So we ought to put it off." He answered her as a good man who loves deeply can only answer. Her heart was convinced; but she turned her head aside and thought of further argument. Her eye fell on some music open on the rest, and mechanically, with a musician's instinct, she fingered a few bars. The strange familiarity of the theme startled her out of preoccupation. She continued the treble, and suddenly with a cold shiver of wonder, crashed down both hands and played on. Geoffrey strode up to her. "What's that you're playing?" She pointed hastily to the score. He bent over and stared at the faded manuscript. "Why, good God!" he cried, "it's my symphony." She stopped, swung round and faced him with fear in her eyes. "Yes. It's your symphony." He took the thick manuscript from the rest and looked at the brown-paper cover. On it was written: "The Song of Life. A Sonata by Angelo Fardetti. September, 1878." There was an amazed silence. Then, in a queer accusing voice, Sonia cried out: "Geoffrey, what have you done?" "Heaven knows; but I've never known of this before. My God! Open the thing somewhere else and see."