ness told him that he had struck the right
note.

"You have grown up in an atmosphere of great music, far removed from the
tendencies of our day. You have received from your father an
extraordinary musical education. He has prepared you on all points but
one for your career, he has not developed your voice; his ambition
intervened--"

"You must not say that. Father does not allow his ambition to interfere
with his duties regarding me. You only think that because you do not
know him; you don't know all the difficulties he has to contend with."

Owen smiled inwardly, pleased at the perception he had shown in divining
her feelings, and he congratulated himself on having sown some slight
seed of discontent; and then, as if he were withdrawing, or at least
attenuating, the suggestion he had thrown out, he said--

"Anyone can see that you and your father are very attached to each
other."

"Can they?"

"You always like to be near him, and your favourite attitude is with
your hand on his shoulder."

"So many people have noticed that. Yes, I am very fond of father. We
were always very fond of each other, but now we are more like pals than
father and daughter."

He encouraged her to talk of herself, to tell him the story of her
childhood, and how she and her father formed this great friendship.
Evelyn's story of her mother's death would have interested him if he had
been able to bestow sufficient attention upon it, but the intricacy of
the intrigue he was entering upon engrossed his thoughts. There were her
love of her father, her duty towards him, and her piety to be overcome.
Against these three considerable influences there were her personal
ambition and her love of him. A very evenly matched game, he thought,
and for nothing in the world would he have missed this love adventure.

At that moment the words, "A few days later she died," caught on his
ear. So he called all the sorrow and reverence he could into his eyes,
sighed, and raised his eyebrows expressing such philosophic resignation
in our mortal lot as might suffice to excuse a change in the
conversation.

"That is the picture gallery," Evelyn said, pointing to a low brick
building, almost hidden at the back of a well-kept garden. The
unobtrusive doorway was covered with a massive creeper, just beginning
to emerge from it's winter's rust. "Do you care to go in?" she said
negligently.

"You know the pictures so well, I am afraid they will bore you."

"No