ad turned away--"

"I just wanted to talk to you," said Orde.

"And you always get what you want," she repeated. "Well?" she conceded,
with a shrug of mock resignation. But the four other men here cut in
with a demand.

"Music!" they clamoured. "We want music!"

With a nod, Miss Bishop turned to the piano, sweeping aside her white
draperies as she sat. She struck a few soft chords, and then, her long
hands wandering idly and softly up and down the keys, she smiled at them
over her shoulder.

"What shall it be?" she inquired.

Some one thrust an open song-book on the rack in front of her. The
others gathered close about, leaning forward to see.

Song followed song, at first quickly, then at longer intervals. At last
the members of the chorus dropped away one by one to occupations of
their own. The girl still sat at the piano, her head thrown back idly,
her hands wandering softly in and out of melodies and modulations.
Watching her, Orde finally saw only the shimmer of her white figure, and
the white outline of her head and throat. All the rest of the room was
gray from the concentration of his gaze. At last her hands fell in her
lap. She sat looking straight ahead of her.

Orde at once arose and came to her.

"That was a wonderfully quaint and beautiful thing," said he. "What was
it?"

She turned to him, and he saw that the mocking had gone from her eyes
and mouth, leaving them quite simple, like a child's.

"Did you like it?" she asked.

"Yes," said Orde. He hesitated and stammered awkwardly. "It was so still
and soothing, it made me think of the river sometimes about dusk. What
was it?"

"It wasn't anything. I was improvising."

"You made it up yourself?"

"It was myself, I suppose. I love to build myself a garden, and
wander on until I lose myself in it. I'm glad there was a river in the
garden--a nice, still, twilight river."

She flashed up at him, her head sidewise.

"There isn't always." She struck a crashing discord on the piano.

Every one looked up at the sudden noise of it.

"Oh, don't stop!" they cried in chorus, as though each had been
listening intently.

The girl laughed up at Orde in amusement. Somehow this flash of an
especial understanding between them to the exclusion of the others sent
a warm glow to his heart.

"I do wish you had your harp here," said Jane Hubbard, coming indolently
forward. "You just ought to hear her play the harp," she told the rest.
"It's just the bes