"What is the use of longing for that which one cannot have?" she said
lightly, but checking a sigh.

He looked at her quickly, strangely, and a faint dash of color rose to
his pale face.

"That's true philosophy, at any rate," he said, in a low voice; "but,
all the same, one can't help longing sometimes."

As he spoke, he stole a glance at the beautiful face; and, in looking,
forgot the toast, which promptly showed its resentment of his neglect by
"catching," and filling the apartment with the smell of scorched bread.

"I think that's burning," said Nell.

"And I'm sure of it," he said penitently. "If ever you are in doubt as
to the statement that man is a useless animal, set me to some simple
task, Miss Lorton, and I'll prove it beyond question. Never mind, it's
my slice, and charcoal is extremely wholesome."

"There's another; and do be careful! And how are you getting on?"

He jerked his head toward the sitting room above, where the piano was.

"The cantata? Slowly, slowly," he said thoughtfully. "Sometimes it goes,
like a two-year-old; at others it drags and creeps along, and more often
it stops altogether. You haven't heard it lately; perhaps that's the
reason I'm sticking. I notice that I always get on better and faster
after you--and Lorton--have been up to mark progress. Perhaps you'll
come up this evening? It's cruel to ask you, I know, for you must hate
the sound of my piano and fiddle, just as much as I hate the sound of
Mrs. Jones spanking Tommy, or the whizzing of the sewing machine of that
poor girl in the next room. And you must hear them, too--you, who have
been so used to the quiet of the country, the music of the sea, and the
humming of bees! Yes, it is harder for you, Miss Lorton, than for any of
the rest of us; and I often stop in the middle of the cantata and think
how you must suffer."

"Then don't think of it again," said Nell cheerfully, "for, indeed,
there is no cause to pity me. At first----" She stopped, and her brows
knit with the memory of the first few weeks of Beaumont Buildings.
"Well, at first it was rather--trying; but after a while one gets
used----"

"Used to the infernal--I beg your pardon--the incessant bangings on a
piano, and the wailings of Tommy Jones. But you wouldn't complain even
if you still suffered as keenly as you did when you first came. I know.
Sometimes I feel that I would give ten years of my life if I could hear
you say 'Good-by, Mr. Falconer; we are go