It was quite likely that De Vere would see the difference between his lowly born love and the real ladies in the room, as Lady Adela had said, but that he would be disenchanted was quite another matter. There certainly appeared to be no chance of it now. He was charmed with the splendid musical talent she had evinced. He felt a glow of pride in her as if she belonged to him already. "You have done splendidly," he whispered, as he hung delightedly over her. "There is not a lady in the room who can do half so well." "Thank you," she replied, demurely. "But you had better give me another piece. I am here to play, not to talk." He longed to say, "Give me the right to place you on an equality with these women as my wife," but he was afraid to venture yet. Something in her cold, careless manner forbade the thought. He said to himself that he must wait until he knew her longer and had wooed her more. She was not to be lightly won, this beautiful gifted girl. She was proud and sensitive. He would have to bide his time. So with a smothered sigh he placed before her several pieces, and while she played he stood silently by her side, turning the leaves of her music, and gazing into the beautiful, soulful face, proud and glad in the privilege he enjoyed of being so near her. When she had played several instrumental pieces brilliantly, he placed another song before her. "Let me hear if you can sing as well as you can play," he pleaded. She glanced at the song. It was Longfellow's "Bridge." "Yes, I will sing it," she said; and again there fell a hush of silence as the sweet and well-trained voice filled the room with its melody. De Vere was fain to acknowledge that she sung as well as she played. When she had sung the last line she looked up into his face. "Will you play or sing something now while I rest?" she asked. "I never knew how unfortunate I was before in having no talent for music," he said, ruefully. "I should like to oblige you so much, but I have no more voice than a raven, Miss West. I will call Lancaster. He can sing like a seraph." "Oh, pray don't!" she cried; but he had already turned around. "Lancaster," he called, "won't you come and sing something while Miss West has a breathing-spell?" He came forward at once. He thought it would be very pleasant to displace De Vere for a moment, to stand by her side and watch her exquisite face and the glancing white hands as they moved over the shining pearl keys. "Pray do not rise," he said, bending over her, hurriedly; "I will sing, but I shall want you to play my accompaniment." She bowed silently, and he selected a piece of music and placed it before her. It was that beautiful song, "My Queen." "He is going to sing to Lady Adela," the girl said to herself, a little disdainfully, but her touch was firm and unfaltering as she struck the chords while Lord Lancaster sung: