"The cantata? Slowly, slowly," he said thoughtfully. "Sometimes it goes, like a two-year-old; at others it drags and creeps along, and more often it stops altogether. You haven't heard it lately; perhaps that's the reason I'm sticking. I notice that I always get on better and faster after you--and Lorton--have been up to mark progress. Perhaps you'll come up this evening? It's cruel to ask you, I know, for you must hate the sound of my piano and fiddle, just as much as I hate the sound of Mrs. Jones spanking Tommy, or the whizzing of the sewing machine of that poor girl in the next room. And you must hear them, too--you, who have been so used to the quiet of the country, the music of the sea, and the humming of bees! Yes, it is harder for you, Miss Lorton, than for any of the rest of us; and I often stop in the middle of the cantata and think how you must suffer." "Then don't think of it again," said Nell cheerfully, "for, indeed, there is no cause to pity me. At first----" She stopped, and her brows knit with the memory of the first few weeks of Beaumont Buildings. "Well, at first it was rather--trying; but after a while one gets used----" "Used to the infernal--I beg your pardon--the incessant bangings on a piano, and the wailings of Tommy Jones. But you wouldn't complain even if you still suffered as keenly as you did when you first came. I know. Sometimes I feel that I would give ten years of my life if I could hear you say 'Good-by, Mr. Falconer; we are going!' though God knows I--we--should all miss you badly enough." There came a knock at the door--a soft, dull knock, followed by a rattle of the handle--and a mite of a boy stood in the opening, inhaling the scent of the tea and toast, and gazing wide-eyed at the two occupants of the room. "Please, mother ses will 'oo lend her free lumps o' sugar, Miss 'Orton; 'cos she've run out." "Of course I will! And come in, Tommy!" said Nell. "There you are!" She wrapped half the contents of the sugar basin in a piece of paper and gave it him; then, seeing his eyes fixed wistfully on the pile of buttered toast, she took a couple of slices, arranged them in sandwich fashion, butter side inward, and put them into his chubby and grimy fist. "There you are. And, Tommy, you'll be a good boy, and won't eat any of the sugar, will you?" "No; I'll be dood, Miss 'Orton. I'll promise I'll be dood." "Then there's one lump all to yourself!" she said, sticking it into the other fist. "Open the door for him, Mr. Falconer; and don't watch him up the stairs; he'll keep his promise," she added, in a low voice, as she searched for a comparatively clean spot on Tommy's face on which to kiss him. "Go on--you lucky young beggar!" said Falconer, under his breath, and eying Tommy enviously.