had to happen all over again she must act as she had acted.  How well she remembered the moment when she felt that her life in Dulwich had become impossible.  She was coming from the village where she had been paying some bills, and looking up she had suddenly seen the angle of a house and a bare tree, and she could still hear the voice which had spoken out of her very soul.  “Shall I never get away from this place?” it had cried.  “Shall I go on doing these daily tasks for ever?” The strange, vehement agony of the voice had frightened her....  At that moment her eyes were attracted by a sort of harpsichord.  “One of father’s experiments,” she said, running her fingers over the keys.  “A sort of cross between a harpsichord and a virginal; up here the intonation is that of a virginal.”

“I forgot to ask you miss”—­Evelyn turned from the window, startled; it was Agnes who had come back—­“if you was going to stop for dinner, for there’s very little in the house, only a bit of cold beef.  I should be ashamed to put it on the table, miss; I’m sure you couldn’t eat it.  Master don’t think what he eats; he’s always thinking of his music.  I hope you aren’t like that, miss?”

“So he doesn’t eat much.  How is my father looking, Agnes?”

“Middling, miss.  He varies about a good bit; he’s gone rather thin lately.”

“Is he lonely, do you think ... in the evenings?”

“No, miss; I don’t hear him say nothing about being lonely.  For the last couple of years he never did more than come home to sleep and his meals, and he’d spend the evenings copying out the music.”

“And off again early in the morning?”

“That’s it, miss, with his music tied up in a brown paper parcel.  Sometimes Mr. Dean comes and helps him to write the music.”

“Ah!... but I’m sorry he doesn’t eat better.”

“He eats better when Mr. Dean’s here.  They has a nice little dinner together.  Now he’s taken up with that ’ere instrument, the harpy chord, they’s making.  He’s comin’ home to-night to finish it; he says he can’t get it finished nohow—­that they’s always something more to do to it.”

“I wonder if we could get a nice dinner for him this evening?”

“Well, miss, you see there’s no shops to speak of about here.  You know that as well as I do.”

“I wonder what your cooking is like?”

“I don’t know, miss; p’r’aps it wouldn’t suit you, but I’ve been always praised for my cooking.”

“I could send for some things; my coachman could fetch them from town.”

“Then there’s to-morrow to be thought about if you’re stopping here.  I tell you we don’t keep much in the house.”

“Is my father coming home to dinner?”

“I can’t say for certain, miss, only that he said ’e’d be ’ome early to finish the harpy chord.  ’E might have ’is dinner out and come ’ome directly after, but I shouldn’t think that was likely.”

“You can cook a chicken, Agnes?”