“Are you quite well this morning, Miss Tulliver?” said Stephen, turning to Maggie with stiff politeness, and putting out his hand with the air of fulfilling a social duty. Maggie gave the tips of her fingers, and said, “Quite well, thank you,” in a tone of proud indifference. Philip’s eyes were watching them keenly; but Lucy was used to seeing variations in their manner to each other, and only thought with regret that there was some natural antipathy which every now and then surmounted their mutual good-will. “Maggie is not the sort of woman Stephen admires, and she is irritated by something in him which she interprets as conceit,” was the silent observation that accounted for everything to guileless Lucy. Stephen and Maggie had no sooner completed this studied greeting than each felt hurt by the other’s coldness. And Stephen, while rattling on in questions to Philip about his recent sketching expedition, was thinking all the more about Maggie because he was not drawing her into the conversation as he had invariably done before. “Maggie and Philip are not looking happy,” thought Lucy; “this first interview has been saddening to them.” “I think we people who have not been galloping,” she said to Stephen, “are all a little damped by the rain. Let us have some music. We ought to take advantage of having Philip and you together. Give us the duet in ‘Masaniello’; Maggie has not heard that, and I know it will suit her.” “Come, then,” said Stephen, going toward the piano, and giving a foretaste of the tune in his deep “brum-brum,” very pleasant to hear. “You, please, Philip,—you play the accompaniment,” said Lucy, “and then I can go on with my work. You _will_ like to play, sha’n’t you?” she added, with a pretty, inquiring look, anxious, as usual, lest she should have proposed what was not pleasant to another; but with yearnings toward her unfinished embroidery. Philip had brightened at the proposition, for there is no feeling, perhaps, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not find relief in music,—that does not make a man sing or play the better; and Philip had an abundance of pent-up feeling at this moment, as complex as any trio or quartet that was ever meant to express love and jealousy and resignation and fierce suspicion, all at the same time. “Oh, yes,” he said, seating himself at the piano, “it is a way of eking out one’s imperfect life and being three people at once,—to sing and make the piano sing, and hear them both all the while,—or else to sing and paint.” “Ah, there you are an enviable fellow. I can do nothing with my hands,” said Stephen. “That has generally been observed in men of great administrative capacity, I believe,—a tendency to predominance of the reflective powers in me! Haven’t you observed that, Miss Tulliver?” Stephen had fallen by mistake into his habit of playful appeal to Maggie, and she could not repress the answering flush and epigram.