ice. For a moment the latter did not seem to recognise his
visitor; he had evidently been expecting some one else.

Then he repaired his tardiness, ceased to hold the door, and Dove
entered, apologising for his intrusion.

"Just a moment. I won't detain you. As you were absent from the class
all last week, Schwarz asked to-day if you were ill, and I said I would
step round and see."

"Very good of you, I'm sure. Sit down," said Maurice. His face changed
as he spoke; a look of relief and, at the same time, of disappointment
flitted across it.

"Thanks. If I am not disturbing you," answered Dove. As he said these
words, he threw a glance, the significance of which might have been
grasped by a babe, at the piano. It had plainly not been opened that
day.

Maurice understood. "No, I was not practising," he said. "But I have to
go out shortly," and he looked at his watch.

"Quite so. Very good. I won't detain you," repeated Dove, and sat down
on the proffered chair. "But not practising? My dear fellow, how is
that? Are you so far forward already that it isn't necessary? Or is it
a fact that you are not feeling up to the mark?"

"Oh, I'm all right. I get my work over in the morning."

Now he, too, sat down, at the opposite side of the table. Clearing his
throat, Dove gazed at the sinner before him. He began to see that his
errand was not going to be an easy one; where no hint was taken, it was
difficult to insert even the thinnest edge of the wedge. He resolved to
use finesse; and, for several of the precious moments at his disposal,
he talked, as if at random, of other things.

Maurice tapped the table. He kept his eyes fixed on Dove's face, as
though he were drinking in his companion's solemn utterances. In
reality, whole minutes passed without his knowing what was said. At
Dove's knock, he had been certain that a message had come from
Louise--at last. This was the night of the ball; and still she had
given him no promise that she would not go. They had parted, the
evening before, after a bitter quarrel; and he had left her, vowing
that he would not return till she sent for him. He had waited the whole
day, in vain, for a sign. What was Dove with his pompous twaddle to
him? Every slight sound on the stairs or in the passage meant more. He
was listening, listening, without cessation.

When he came back to himself, he heard Dove droning on, like a machine
that has been wound up and cannot stop.

"Now, I hope you