“Nothing, father.”

“You don’t seem to take any interest.  The text is incomplete, and some notes have been conjecturally added by a French musician.”  But much more interesting to Evelyn was his account of the storm that had overtaken his yacht on the coast of Asia Minor.  He had had to take his turn at the helm, all the sailors being engaged at the sails, and, with the waves breaking over him, he had kept her head to the wind for more than two hours.

“I can hardly fancy him braving the elements, can you, Evelyn?”

“I don’t know, father,” she said, startled by the question, for at that moment she had seen him in imagination as clearly as if he were present.  She had seen him leaning against the door-post, a half-cynical, half-kindly smile floating through his gold moustache.  “Do you think he will like the music you are going to give at the next concert?  He is coming, I suppose?”

“It is just possible he may arrive in time; but I should hardly think so.  I’ve written to invite him; he’ll like the music; it is the most interesting programme we’ve had—­an unpublished sonata by Bach—­one of the most interesting, too.  If that is not good enough for him—­by the way, have you looked through that sonata?”

“No, father, but I will do so this afternoon.”

And while practising the sonata, Evelyn felt as if life had begun again.  The third movement of the sonata was an exquisite piece of musical colour, and, if she played it properly, he could not fail to come and congratulate her....  But he would not be here in time for the concert ... not unless he came straight through, and he would not do that after having nearly escaped shipwreck.  She was sure he would not arrive in time, but the possibility that he might gave her additional interest in the sonata, and every day, all through the week, she discovered more and more surprising beauties in it.

CHAPTER FOUR

She was alone in the music-room reading a piece of music, and her back was to the door when he entered.  She hardly recognised him, tired and tossed as he was by long journeying, and his grey travelling suit was like a disguise.

“Is that you, Sir Owen?...  You’ve come back?”

“Come back, yes, I have come back.  I travelled straight through from Marseilles, a pretty stiff journey....  We were nearly shipwrecked off Marseilles.”

“I thought it was off the coast of Asia Minor?”

“That was another storm.  We have had rough weather lately.”

The music dropped from her hand, and she stood looking at him, for he stood before her like an ancient seafarer.  His grey tweed suit buttoned tightly about him set off every line of his spare figure.  His light brown hair was tossed all over his head, and she could not reconcile this rough traveller with the elegant fribble whom she had hitherto known as Sir Owen.  But she liked him in this grey suit, dusty after long travel.  He was picturesque and remote as a legend.  A smile was on his lips; it showed through the frizzled moustache, and his eyes sparkled with pleasure at sight of her.