ou as much as it is possible for
me to love any woman, but, truth to tell, I have come to the conclusion
that I am not a marrying man, and the idea of settling down fills me
with nothing but--" and the word "disgust" was scratched out lightly and
"regret" written over the top.

Basil! Miss Meadows stalked over to the piano. And Mary Beazley, who was
waiting for this moment, bent forward; her curls fell over her cheeks
while she breathed, "Good morning, Miss Meadows," and she motioned
towards rather than handed to her mistress a beautiful yellow
chrysanthemum. This little ritual of the flower had been gone through
for ages and ages, quite a term and a half. It was as much part of the
lesson as opening the piano. But this morning, instead of taking it up,
instead of tucking it into her belt while she leant over Mary and said,
"Thank you, Mary. How very nice! Turn to page thirty-two," what was
Mary's horror when Miss Meadows totally ignored the chrysanthemum, made
no reply to her greeting, but said in a voice of ice, "Page fourteen,
please, and mark the accents well."

Staggering moment! Mary blushed until the tears stood in her eyes, but
Miss Meadows was gone back to the music stand; her voice rang through
the music hall.

"Page fourteen. We will begin with page fourteen. 'A Lament.' Now,
girls, you ought to know it by this time. We shall take it all together;
not in parts, all together. And without expression. Sing it, though,
quite simply, beating time with the left hand."

She raised the baton; she tapped the music stand twice. Down came Mary
on the opening chord; down came all those left hands, beating the air,
and in chimed those young, mournful voices:--

"Fast! Ah, too Fast Fade the Ro-o-ses of Pleasure;
Soon Autumn yields unto Wi-i-nter Drear.
Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly Mu-u-sic's Gay Measure
Passes away from the Listening Ear."

Good Heavens, what could be more tragic than that lament! Every note was
a sigh, a sob, a groan of awful mournfulness. Miss Meadows lifted her
arms in the wide gown and began conducting with both hands. "... I feel
more and more strongly that our marriage would be a mistake... " she
beat. And the voices cried: "Fleetly! Ah, Fleetly." What could have
possessed him to write such a letter! What could have led up to it!
It came out of nothing. His last letter had been all about a fumed-oak
bookcase he had bought for "our" books, and a "natty little hall-stand"
h