he taken an interest in her because she was like this girl, this girl whose miniature he had allowed to be the only breaking note in the whole symphony of his scheme of decoration?  They were like each other, a likeness sufficiently apparent to suggest the thought to her mind.  The miniature was painted in a fashion common to all such works of art a hundred and fifty years ago.  She could not tell from its style when it had been done.  But the fact that it hung there alone, the one gentle spot in otherwise austere and hard surroundings, was sufficient for her to give it the highest prominence in her mind.

It must be that, it must be what she had thought.  He was lonely.  He had said as much to her on that first evening when they had driven on the ’bus together as far as Knightsbridge.  The girl was far away, in another country perhaps, and he had seen her, Sally, had seen the likeness, been reminded of her in some slight way, and had sought to ease his own solitude with the half-satisfying pretence that she was with him.

There was no thought of blame in Sally’s mind.  He meant no evil by her; but it was hard.  The bitterness of it struck at her heart.  After all, there was no fire to be playing with.  The coldness of being absolutely alone again chilled through her whole body, and she shivered.

“Now,” said Traill—­everything was ready at his hand.  “The making of coffee’s the simplest thing in the whole world; that’s why everybody finds it so deucedly difficult.  We’ll put this kettle on first.”  He thrust the kettle on the flame, pressing the coals down beneath it to give it surer hold.

“I’m awfully glad you like my room,” he said, looking up from his crouching attitude by the fire.  “I should have been sorry if you hadn’t.”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know.  If you hadn’t liked my room, you wouldn’t have liked me.  My friend and his dog, I suppose.”

She tried to smile.  “Well, I like it immensely.  I think it’s so awfully uncommon.  I suppose you could never get a piano that would go with the rest of the things?”

For the moment his expression hardened.  A piano!  He hated the sight of them.

“No, never,” he said.

“P’raps you’re not fond of music?”

“No, not a bit.  Are you?”

“Oh yes; I love it.”

His eyes lost their steel again to the tone of her voice when she said that.

“Well, that’s as it ought to be,” he remarked.  “Religion and music are two things a woman can’t do without.  Are you very religious?”

“I don’t know exactly what you mean by that.  I’m afraid I hardly ever go to church, and in that sense, I suppose, I’m not religious.  But I always say my prayers every night and morning.”

Traill smiled at her gently.  “That’s all right,” he said; “churches are nothing, only monuments that fulfil the double purpose of reminding the more forgetful of us that there are a class of people who believe in things they can’t prove, and that also provide employment for those who have to look after them.  I don’t pray myself, but I should think it’s the nearest thing you can get to in a combination of religion and common sense.  Is that kettle boiling, do you think?  Looks like it.  Oh, of course, I ought to have known you were religious.”