t you know your Browning. Gwen
asserted herself victor all along the line, and remonstrance died a
natural death. But what was she going to do all the afternoon? A wealth
of employments awaited her, she testified. Rarely had so many arrears
remained unpaid. Last and least she must try through that song, because
she had to send the music back to the Signore. So the Countess supposed
she must go her own way, and presently Adrian Torrens was conscious that
her ladyship had gone hers, by the curt resurrection of sounds in
abeyance somewhile since; sounds of eight hoofs and four wheels;
suddenly self-assertive, soon evanescent.

Was Gwen really going to come to sing at this piano? _That_ was
something worth living for, at least. But no!--conclusions must not be
jumped in that fashion. Perhaps she had a piano in her own room. Nothing
more likely.

Achilles had stepped out, hearing sounds as of a departure; and now
returned, having seen that all was in satisfactory order. He sighed over
his onerous responsibilities, and settled down to repose--well-earned
repose, his manner suggested.

"I suppose I shall have to clear out when her young ladyship comes in to
practise," said Mrs. Bailey. Mr. Torrens revolted inwardly against
ostracising the good woman on social grounds; but then, _did_ he want
her to remain if Gwen appeared? Just fancy--to have that newcomer all to
himself for perhaps an hour, as he had her for five minutes yesterday!
Too good to be true! He compromised with his conscience about Mrs.
Bailey. "Don't go away till she does, anyhow," said he. And then he sang
Irish Melodies with Tom Moore's words, and rather shocked his hearer by
the message the legatee of the singer received about his heart. She
preferred the Polka.

It chanced that Mrs. Bailey also had weighty correspondence on hand,
relating to an engagement with a new patient; and, with her,
correspondence was no light matter. Pride had always stood between Mrs.
Bailey and culture, ever since she got her schooling done. Otherwise she
might have acquired style and a fluent caligraphy. As it was, her style
was uncertain and her method slow. Knowing this--without admitting
it--she was influenced by hearing a six o'clock post referred to, having
previously thought her letters went an hour later. So she developed an
intention of completing her letter, of which short instalments had been
turned out at intervals already, as soon as ever the advent of a guest
or vi