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to Mrs. Carpenter in her sitting-room, but that would have looked as if she was without the power to entertain herself in her own room, and Mrs. Carpenter was not a woman who really enjoyed conversation.
    Her sitting-room was warm and comfortable at th at hour. Outside rain lashed against the windows, and the great trees in the park were tossing a mad dance encouraged by the elements. But within the four walls of her little room her electric fire glowed strongly, simulating the appearance of logs in an old-fashioned basket, and on the little table beside her chair R ose had set down her coffee cup, and there were the magazines she had not yet had a chance to look at. There was also a letter to be written home to her mother, and she thought she had better get on with it.
    But she lay back in her chair and, presently, during a lull in the wind, she found herself listening—without at first realizing that she was listening—to the music of a piano someone was playing not so very far off in the house. And, of course, that someone must be Adrian, since both his daughter and his brother had told her that music was almost hi s only form of relaxation and pleasure. And once again he was improvising, hi s touch so delicate said delightful that after a few minutes Mallory found herself deserting her chair and stealing across to open the door a little, so that she could hear him that much better.
    As if compelled by the music she stole forward a little way along the corridor. There was no one about in that part of the house at that hour, and the t hi ck carpet allowed her to move soundlessly. At intervals softly-shaded lights shone down upon her as she moved, a slender figure in the dark dress with the little w hi te collar and cuffs w hi ch she had adopted as a badge of her position in the household. Anyone meeting her would not have mistaken her for a domestic, but they would have recognized that she was in some way a dependent , despite the pale aureole of soft, feathery-tipped curls, and the grey eyes that were wide open and ardent and never anything but straight-gazing.
    All at once the piano-playing grew louder, and she realized that she was standing outside the door of the room behind w hi ch the pianist sought to while away a long and possibly lonely evening. She began to realize that she had better retreat at once, for although it was only the playing which had drawn her thus far, anyone coming upon her suddenly might have decided that she was behaving a little oddly. Regretfully, therefore—for it was a Chopin Nocturne now that was filling the corridor with beauty—she turned and started to retrace her steps.
    But before she had taken more than six steps back to her own room the playing suddenly ceased abruptly, in the middle of a bar, and the door behind her was whisked open.
    “ Who ’ s there? ” called Adrian Benedict into the dim tunnel of soft light and softer carpet.
    Mallory wheeled round at once.
    “ I ’ m so sorry, ” she said. “ I hope I didn ’ t disturb you ... ? ”
    “ I heard your footsteps stop outside the door, ” he replied. His large dark eyes had a queer, almost eager brightness in them. “ It ’ s Miss Gower, isn ’ t it? ”
    Mallory stood silent, wondering what to say. She felt like a child caught in a guilty act.
    “ I hope my playing didn ’ t bother you? Can you hear it in your room? ”
    “ That was why I came along, to find out where it was coming from, ” Mallory admitted. “ It was—you play beautifully, ” she finished simply.
    “ Do you think so? ” he asked, and he sounded pleased. “ It ’ s one of the few things I do do beautifully, ” he told her, with equal simplicity.
    “ That variation on the theme ‘ Greensleeves ’ — it ’ s fascinating, ” she said.
    He bowed to her.
    “ All my own work, ” he assured her, his voice quite grave.
    “ You must love music. ”
    “ There ’ s not very much, else to love in life, ” he replied immediately, and