“No harm done, madam,” said he, with a certain elocutionary correctness, and rather in the strong voice of the workshop than the subdued one of the drawing-room, handing the glasses to her ceremoniously as he spoke.

“Thank you.  You are very kind, very kind indeed.”

Conolly bowed, and turned again toward the other group.

“Who is that?” whispered Mrs. Fairfax to the clergyman.

“Some young man who attracted the attention of the Countess by his singing.  He is only a workman.”

“Indeed!  Where did she hear him sing?”

“In her son’s laboratory, I believe.  He came there to put up some electrical machinery, and sang into a telephone for their amusement.  You know how fond Lord Jasper is of mechanics.  Jasper declares that he is a genius as an electrician.  Indeed it was he, rather than the Countess, who thought of getting him to sing for us.”

“How very interesting!  I saw that he was clever when he spoke to me.  There is so much in trifles—­in byplay, Mr. Lind.  Now, his manner of picking up my glass had his entire history in it.  You will also see it in the solid development of his head.  That young man deserves to be encouraged.”

“You are very generous, Mrs. Leith Fairfax.  It would not be well to encourage him too much, however.  You must recollect that he is not used to society.  Injudicious encouragement might perhaps lead him to forget his real place in it.”

“I do not agree with you, Mr. Lind.  You do not read human nature as I do.  You know that I am an expert.  I see men as he sees a telegraph instrument, quite uninfluenced by personal feeling.”

“True, Mrs. Leith Fairfax.  But the heart is deceitful above all things and des—­at least I should say—­er.  That is, you will admit that the finest perception may err in its estimate of the inscrutable work of the Almighty.”

“Doubtless.  But really, Mr. Lind, human beings are so shallow!  I assure you there is nothing at all inscrutable about them to a trained analyst of character.  It may be a gift, perhaps; but people’s minds are to me only little machines made up of superficial motives.”

“I say,” said the young gentleman with the banjo, interrupting them:  “have you got a copy of ‘Rose softly blooming’ there?”

“I!” said Mrs. Fairfax.  “No, certainly not.”

“Then it’s all up with the concert.  We have forgotten Marian’s music; and there is nothing for Nelly—­I beg pardon, I mean Miss McQuinch—­to play from.  She is above playing by ear.”

“I cannot play by ear,” said the restless young lady, angrily.

“If you will sing ‘Coal black Rose’ instead, Marian, I can accompany you on the banjo, and back you up in the chorus.  The Wandsworthers—­if they survive the concertinas—­will applaud the change as one man.”

“It is so unkind to joke about it,” said the beautiful young lady.  “What shall I do?  If somebody will vamp an accompaniment, I can get on very well without any music.  But if I try to play for myself I shall break down.”