“If you do not mind, why should I?  Besides, could you not find some place apart where Andrew and myself could be quiet?”

“You would object to some of the songs; they are not adapted for your ears.”

“You know nothing about my ears.  I do not suppose there will be anything wrong.  Come now, promise.”

Mr. Montgomery thought a little, and reflected that he could easily obtain a secluded seat; and as for the programme, he could perhaps for once exclude everything offensive.  He said he would write and fix an evening.

“Andrew is out all day; perhaps you had better send the note to me, so that I may have more time to make arrangements.”  Miriam usually said what she meant; but this was not what she meant.  She was possessed now by a passion which was stronger than her tendency to speak the truth.  She longed for the pleasure of a letter to herself in Mr. Montgomery’s own writing.  The next morning, when she went downstairs, she looked anxiously at the breakfast table.  It was utterly impossible that he could have written, but she thought there was a chance.  She listened for the postman’s knock all day, but nothing came.  How could it be otherwise, seeing that Mr. Montgomery must go to the music hall first.  She knew he must go, and yet she listened.  Reason has so little to do with the conduct of life, even in situations in which its claim is incontestable.  The next day she had a right to expect, but she expected in vain.

Mr. Montgomery was not a stone, but he saw no reason why he should be in a hurry.  Miriam was a bewitching creature, but he had been frequently bewitched, and had recovered.  The notion, of course, that he was wrecking Miriam’s peace of mind by delaying a little business note, or by omitting to fix the earliest possible moment for the visit, was too absurd to present itself to him.  At last he wrote, telling Miss Tacchi that he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing her and Andrew at the hall on the day following.  He would call for them both.  Miriam had not stirred from home since she last saw him, and was in the little back room when the letter arrived.  Miss Tippit brought it to her, and she took it with an affected air of total unconcern.

“Thank you, Miss Tippit.  I am sorry to see you looking so poorly.”

“Thank you, Miss Tacchi; I am not well by any means,” and Miss Tippit departed.

Miriam had not latterly inquired after Miss Tippit’s health, but being excited and happy, she not only inquired, but actually felt a genuine interest in Miss Tippit’s welfare.  She read the note twice—­there was nothing in it; but she took it upstairs and read it again in her bedroom, and finally locked it up in her desk, putting it in a little secret drawer which opened with a spring.  She had in her possession something in his hand—­she was going out with him; and the outlook from her back window over the tiles was not to be surpassed by that down a Devonshire glen in mid-summer, with Devonshire azure on the sea.