ich Cecil conceived was feudal: that of protector and protected. He
had no glimpse of the comradeship after which the girl's soul yearned.

"You shall see for yourself how your proteges are. George Emerson is
coming up this afternoon. He is a most interesting man to talk to. Only
don't--" She nearly said, "Don't protect him." But the bell was ringing
for lunch, and, as often happened, Cecil had paid no great attention to
her remarks. Charm, not argument, was to be her forte.

Lunch was a cheerful meal. Generally Lucy was depressed at meals. Some
one had to be soothed--either Cecil or Miss Bartlett or a Being not
visible to the mortal eye--a Being who whispered to her soul: "It
will not last, this cheerfulness. In January you must go to London to
entertain the grandchildren of celebrated men." But to-day she felt she
had received a guarantee. Her mother would always sit there, her brother
here. The sun, though it had moved a little since the morning, would
never be hidden behind the western hills. After luncheon they asked her
to play. She had seen Gluck's Armide that year, and played from memory
the music of the enchanted garden--the music to which Renaud approaches,
beneath the light of an eternal dawn, the music that never gains, never
wanes, but ripples for ever like the tideless seas of fairyland. Such
music is not for the piano, and her audience began to get restive,
and Cecil, sharing the discontent, called out: "Now play us the other
garden--the one in Parsifal."

She closed the instrument.

"Not very dutiful," said her mother's voice.

Fearing that she had offended Cecil, she turned quickly round. There
George was. He had crept in without interrupting her.

"Oh, I had no idea!" she exclaimed, getting very red; and then, without
a word of greeting, she reopened the piano. Cecil should have the
Parsifal, and anything else that he liked.

"Our performer has changed her mind," said Miss Bartlett, perhaps
implying, she will play the music to Mr. Emerson. Lucy did not know
what to do nor even what she wanted to do. She played a few bars of the
Flower Maidens' song very badly and then she stopped.

"I vote tennis," said Freddy, disgusted at the scrappy entertainment.

"Yes, so do I." Once more she closed the unfortunate piano. "I vote you
have a men's four."

"All right."

"Not for me, thank you," said Cecil. "I will not spoil the set." He
never realized that it may be an act of kindness in a bad player to