e going on all fours."

As he spoke he went under. With a sad little smile she followed.

"I know I ought to be in mourning," she told him as he brushed his
knees.

She hesitated and sat down. She did not say that she lacked the money to
buy the suits and trappings. She did not want to say that she had sold
the table, which was the last relic of her early home, nor yet that she
had been trying to get it out, in order to prevent the Jew purchaser
from again coming in. Instead, she fingered her smock.

"I have been looking for an engagement and they don't want you in
black."

Jones took a chair. "War has made mourning an anachronism in Europe. If
it lasts long enough, it will do the same here and do the same with art.
But you are very brave." He looked about. "I understood your father had
a Cremona."

"The poor dear thought so, but a dealer to whom I took it said it was a
Tyrolean copy."

Jones put down his hat. "The brutes always say something of the kind.
What did it look like?"

Cassy glanced at him. "A flute, of course. What else would a violin look
like?"

"You are quite right. I meant the colour."

"Oh, the colour! Madeira with a sheen in it."

"Yes!" Jones exclaimed. "That is the exact and precise description of
the Amati varnish, of which the secret is lost. I hope you did not let
the brute have it."

Cassy did not want to tell him that either. But when you are very
forlorn it is hard to keep everything in.

"I needed a little for the funeral and he gave it to me."

"And it was worth thousands! Have you found an engagement?"

"The season is ending. Then too, either I have lost confidence or I am
not up to it, not yet at least."

"I can understand that."

Cassy gestured. "It is not this empty room, it is the doors that slam.
We know we should hasten to love those whom we do love, lest they leave
us forever before we have loved them enough. But do we? We think we have
time and to spare. I know I thought so. I was careless, forgetful,
selfish. That is one of the doors. I can't close it."

"Time will."

"Perhaps. Meanwhile I am told I should change my name. At first, I felt
very bitterly toward you for what you did here. It seemed inhuman of
you. Since then I have realised that you could not have done otherwise.
It saved Mr. Lennox. I would have done that."

"I am sure of it."

"But I won't change my name. I won't put such an affront on the poor
dear who thought--yet there! I shall never k