elight. This was the secret of her life, which she guarded so
jealously, which she feared even by chance to betray in the phrasings of
common intercourse. Wilfrid had divined it, and it was the secret
influence of this sympathy that had led her to such unwonted frankness
in their latest conversation.

Mrs. Rossall had spoken to her of Beatrice Redwing's delightful singing,
and had asked her to come to the drawing-room during the evening; having
declined the afternoon's drive, Emily did not feel able to neglect this
other invitation. The day had become sultry towards its close; when she
joined the company about nine o'clock, she found Beatrice with Mrs.
Rossall sitting in the dusk by the open French windows, Mr. Athel in a
chair just outside, and Wilfrid standing by him, the latter pair
smoking. The sky beyond the line of dark greenery was still warm with
after-glow of sunset.

Emily quietly sought a chair near Mrs. Rossall, from whom she received a
kind look. Mr. Athel was relating a story of his early wanderings in
Egypt, with a leisurely gusto, an effective minuteness of picturing, the
result of frequent repetition. At the points of significance he would
pause for a moment or two and puff life into his cigar. His anecdotes
were seldom remarkable, but they derived interest from the enjoyment
with which he told them; they impressed one with a sense of mental
satisfaction, of physical robustness held in reserve, of life content
among the good things of the world.

'Shall we have lights?' Mrs. Rossall asked, when the story at length
came to an end.

'Play us something first,' said Beatrice. 'This end of twilight is so
pleasant.'

Mrs. Rossall went to the piano, upon which still fell a glimmer from
another window, and filled the room with harmony suiting the hour.
Wilfrid had come in and seated himself on a couch in a dark corner; his
father paced up and down the grass. Emily watched the first faint gleam
of stars in the upper air.

Then lamps and candles were brought in. Beatrice was seen to be dressed
in dark blue, her hair richly attired, a jewelled cross below her
throat, her bosom and arms radiant in bare loveliness. Emily, at the
moment that she regarded her, found herself also observed. Her own dress
was of warm grey, perfectly simple, with a little lace at the neck and
wrists. Beatrice averted her eyes quickly, and made some laughing remark
to Mr. Athel.

'I know you always object to sing without some musi