upon the
programme as if for the enlightenment of their neighbours. When Emily
had been sitting for a few minutes, she found that it had been unwise to
leave her mantle in the cloak-room; there was a bad draught. Wilfrid
went to recover it. Whilst waiting, Emily became aware that the men
behind her were talking of Miss Redwing; she listened.

'She's married, I think, eh?' said one.

'Was to have been, you mean. Why, wasn't it you told me the story? O no,
it was Drummond. Drummond knows her people, I think.'

'What story, eh?'

'Why, she was to have married a Member of Parliament; what the deuce was
his name? Something that reminded me of a race-horse, I remember. Was it
Blair? No--Athel! That's the name.'

'Why didn't it come off, then?'

'Oh, the honourable member found somebody he liked better.'

It was not the end of the conversation, but just then the conductor rose
in his place and there was 'hushing.' Wilfrid returned at the same
moment. He noticed that Emily shivered as he put the covering on her
shoulders. When he was seated she looked at him so strangely that he
asked her in a whisper what was the matter. Emily shook her head and
seemed to fix her attention on the music.

Beatrice Redwing was the third singer to come forward. Whilst she sang
Emily frequently looked at her husband. Wilfrid did not notice it, he
was absorbed in listening. Towards the end Emily, too, lost thought of
everything save the magic with which the air was charged. There was
vociferous demand for an encore and Beatrice gave another song.

When the mid-way interval was reached Emily asked her husband if he
would leave the hall. She gave no reason and Wilfrid did not question
her. When they were in the carriage she said the draught had been too
severe. Wilfrid kept silence; he was troubled by inexplicable
misgivings.

Servants hastened to light the drawing-room on their arrival earlier
than was expected. Emily threw off her wraps and seated herself near the
fire.

'Do you suffer from the chill?' Wilfrid asked, approaching her as if
with diffidence.

She turned her face to him, gazing with the sadness which was so much
more natural to her than the joy of two hours ago.

'It was not the draught that made me come away,' she said with gentle
directness. 'I must tell you what it was, Wilfrid. I cannot keep any of
my thoughts from you.'

'Tell me,' he murmured, standing by her.

She related the substance of the conversation sh