“Heaven forbid the acquaintance! For he could scarcely help from recognizing his old rival. And what then?” Poor Annette’s thoughts were nothing but a jumble of what thens; for all her recently acquired knowledge made her heart very heavy. Perhaps Reed Raymond also felt rather alarmed at the prospect of Lord Werter’s call, but he made no sign. He could only trust to the discretion of Dallas Bain, and he did not believe it would fail him in his hour of need. As was usual in the household, Daisie spent the hour after breakfast alone with her husband in a pleasant morning room, giving him an account of her evening’s pleasures, so Annette braced herself to “have it out,” as she phrased it, at once with the offending companion. When breakfast was over she assumed a saucy air to mislead her companions, and exclaimed: “Mr. Raymond, I wonder if you are a good accompanist. I want to try some new songs this morning; but Mr. Sherwood will monopolize his wife for several hours, so I must beg you to become her substitute.” “I am at your service, Miss Janowitz,” he replied, with a slight tremor in his rich voice, and followed her to the music room. Royall smiled at his wife, and said: “She will soon have him in her toils, the little siren!” Then the valet came to wheel him into the morning room for the precious hour with Daisie; and while she tells him of last night’s pleasures, and asks him if he spent a comfortable night, and if he is not greatly pleased with Mr. Raymond, we will follow the other couple to their interview in the music room. Annette kept up the pretense of her request at first, and soon Daisie and Royall heard their voices chiming very sweetly together in one of the latest songs of the day--not a sentimental one, though, for at first she could not trust herself to that. It made her heart ache to hear their voices mingling together so sweetly, as in old days when they had been true lovers, ere his jealous madness parted them forever, and she wondered how he felt over this strange meeting--this singing, that was just a farce to lead up to something serious. Yet it was perilously sweet to her heart, although she told herself she hated him for that little crimson scar on her white breast, the witness of his attempted crime. It was not his fault that she was alive this moment, instead of lying in a grassy little grave with “Annette, _ætat_ 18,” carved on the marble above her dreamless head. With that thought, Annette steeled her heart, that had been softening in spite of her anger, and suddenly exclaimed: “I know you, Ray Dering, and my asking you to accompany me in my songs was just a pretext to secure an interview with you. Now that we have fooled the others, we can talk a while.” His white hands fell with a crash from the piano keys, and he was about to spring up; but she added: “Sit still; it will look more natural thus if any one comes in. I can stand here and say what I wish.”