Andrea laughed and nodded, and played a bit of "The Carnival of Venice" as it ought to be played, with gaiety and mischief. Then he broke off, and after two or three tearing chords that made his hearers start, plunged into a wild czardas. The ladies looked at him in open-mouthed astonishment as the mad music such as they had never heard in their lives before filled the little room with its riot and devilry. Penruddocke stood and panted, his eyes staring out of his head. When Andrea had finished there was a bewildered silence. He nodded pleasantly at his audience, delighted at the effect he had produced. Then, with an artist's malice, he went to the other extreme of emotion. He played a sobbing folk-song, rending the heart with cries of woe and desolation and broken hopes. It clutched at the heart-strings, turning them into vibrating chords; it pierced the soul with its poignant despair; it ended in a long-drawn-out note high up in the treble, whose pain became intolerable; and the end was greeted with a sharp gasp of relief. The white lips of the ruddy giant quivered. Tears streamed down the cheeks of Miss Widdington and Miss Ursula. Again there was silence, but this time it was broken by a clear, shrill voice outside. "Encore! Encore!" The sisters looked at one another. Who had dared intrude at such a moment? Miss Widdington went to the window to see. In the garden stood a young woman of independent bearing, with a pallette and brushes in her hand. An easel was pitched a few yards beyond the gate. Miss Widdington regarded this young woman with marked disfavour. The girl calmly raised her eyes. "I apologise for trespassing like this," she said, "but I simply couldn't resist coming nearer to this marvellous violin-playing--and my exclamation came out almost unconsciously." "You are quite welcome to listen," said Miss Widdington stiffly. "May I ask who is playing it?" Miss Widdington almost gasped at the girl's impertinence. The latter laughed frankly. "I ask because it seems as if it could only be one of the big, well-known people." "It's a young friend who is staying with us," said Miss Widdington. "I beg your pardon," said the girl. "But, you see my brother is Boris Danilof, the violinist, so I've that excuse for being interested." "I don't think Mr. Andrea can play any more to-day," said Miss Ursula from her seat by the bed. "He's tired." Miss Widdington repeated this information to Miss Danilof, who bade her good afternoon and withdrew to her easel. "A most forward, objectionable girl," exclaimed Miss Widdington. "And who is Boris Danilof, I should like to know?" If she had but understood German, Andrea could have told her. He caught at the name of the world-famous violinist and bent eagerly forward in great excitement. "Boris Danilof? _Ist er unten_?" "_Nicht_--I mean _Nein_," replied Miss Widdington, proud at not having to consult Otto. Andrea sank back disappointed, on his pillow. V