At last, “Chris,” he said, “will it comfort you to know that what you call a little is to me the greatest thing on earth?”

His voice was deep and very quiet, yet a tremor went through her at his words.

“That’s just what frightens me,” she said.

“It shouldn’t frighten you,” he said.  “It need not.”

“But it does,” said Chris.

He was silent for another space, still holding her closely.  In the room behind them they could hear the cousins talking; but they were alone together, shut off, as it were, from ordinary converse, alone under the stars.

“Suppose,” said Mordaunt gently, “you leave off thinking for a bit, and take things as they come.”

“Yes?” she said rather dubiously.

He bent down to her.  “Chris, I will never ask more of you than you are able to give.”

She moved at that in her quick, impulsive way, reached up and clasped his neck.  “Oh, Trevor, I do love you!” she said, with a catch in her voice.  “I do want you to have—­the best!”

Her face was raised to his.  For the first time she offered him her lips.  They were nearer to understanding each other at that moment than they had ever been before.

But as he bent lower to kiss her the notes of the piano floated out to them again, this time in a soft melody, inexpressibly sweet, full of a subtle charm, the fairy gold of romance.

She kissed him indeed—­and it was the first kiss she had ever given him; but he felt her stiffen in his hold even as she did it.  And the next moment, almost with passion, she spoke—­

“I wish Rupert wouldn’t play that thing!  He knows—­he knows—­that I can’t bear it!”

“What is it?” Mordaunt asked in surprise.

She answered him with a laugh that did not ring quite true.  “It is the ‘Aubade a la Fiancee.’  He is only playing it to torment us.  Let us go in and stop him!”

She turned inwards with the words, disengaging herself from his arm as casually as she might have pushed aside a chair.  Mordaunt followed her in silence.  There were no further confidences between them that night.

CHAPTER V

DE PROFUNDIS

It was pouring with rain, and the man with the flute at the corner shivered and pulled his rags more closely about him.  He had not been lucky that day, or, indeed, for many days, as the haggard eyes that stared out of his white face testified.

He had spent the past three nights in the open, but to-night—­to-night was cruelly wet.  He questioned with himself what he should do.

In his pocket was that which might procure a night’s lodging or a meagre supper; but it would not supply both.  He had to decide between the two, unless he elected to go on playing till midnight in the drenching rain on the chance of augmenting his scanty store.