Nan gazed at him in astonishment—­at this new, surprising Sandy who was talking to her with the forcefulness of a man ten years his senior.

“As for being ‘out of it,’ as you say,” he went on emphatically.  “If you are, it’s only by your own consent.  Anyone who writes as you can need never be out of it.  If you’d only do the big stuff you’re capable of doing, you’d be ‘in it’ right enough—­half the time confabbing with singers and conductors, and the other half glad to get back to your green fields and the blessed quiet.  If you were like me, now—­not a damn bit of good because I’ve no technical knowledge . . .”

In an instant her quick sympathies responded to the note of regret which he could not keep quite out of his voice.

“Sandy, I’m a beast to grouse.  It’s true—­you’ve had much harder luck.”  She spoke eagerly, then paused, checked by a sudden piercing memory.  “But—­but music . . . after all, it isn’t the only thing.”

“No,” he returned cheerfully.  “But it will do quite well to go on with.  Let’s toddle along to the piano and amuse each other.”

She nodded, and together they made their way to the West Parlour.

“Have you written anything new?” he asked, turning over some sheets of scribbled, manuscript that were lying on the piano.  “Let’s hear it.”

Rather reluctantly she played him a few odd bits of her recent work—­the outcome of dull, depressing days.

Sandy listened, and as he listened his lips set in an uncompromising straight line.

“Well, I never heard more maudlin piffle in my life!” was his frank comment when she had finished.  “If you can’t do better than that, you’d better shut the piano and go digging potatoes.”

Nan laughed rather mirthlessly.

“I don’t know what sort of a hand you’d make at potato digging,” pursued Sandy.  “But apparently this is the net result of your musical studies”—­and, seating himself at the piano, he rattled off a caustic parody of her performance.

“Rank sentimentalism, Nan,” he said coolly, as he dropped his hands from the keys.  “And you know it as well as I do.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.  But it’s impossible to do any serious work here.  Lady Gertrude fairly radiates disapproval whenever I spend an hour or two at the piano.  Oh!”—­her sense of humour rising uppermost for a moment—­“she asked me to play to them one evening, so I gave them some Debussy—­out of sheer devilment, I think”—­smiling a little—­“and at the end Lady Gertrude said politely:  ’Thank you.  And now, might we have something with a little more tune in it?”

Sandy shouted with delight.

“After all, people like that are awfully refreshing,” he said at last.

“At times,” admitted Nan.  “All the same,” she went on dispiritedly, “one must be in the right atmosphere to do anything worth while.”

“Well, I’m exuding as much as I can,” said Sandy.  “Atmosphere, I mean.  Look here, what about that concerto for pianoforte and orchestra which you had in mind?  Have you done anything to it yet?”