“In what way is that?” Mr. Winthrop asked, as he stood looking down at me from behind Mrs. Flaxman’s chair.  I sprang to my feet in consternation.  “We did not hear you enter,” I faltered, very much ashamed to be found in such a childish attitude.

“I know that, since I would not have been just now admitted to your confidence.”

I wheeled him up an arm chair, and stirred the fire very industriously, hoping thereby to divert his attention.  He sat down quietly.  His massive head laid back against the rich, dark leather seemed to bring the features out in stronger relief; the fire light falling uncertainly on his face, but enabling me to note distinctly its expectant look.  I went to the window and stood for sometime watching the passers by in the street, thinking thus to pass away the time until Mr. Winthrop should forget to further question me; but he suddenly startled me by coming towards the window where I stood, and saying: 

“You have not answered my question.”

“The remark was only intended for Mrs. Flaxman’s ears, and was of no importance, any way.”

“Mrs. Flaxman then will enlighten me as to the bent of your ambition,” he said, quite too authoritatively for my liking, and turned towards her.

“Our conversation drifted to personal endeavor.  We were talking of many things, when Medoline, just as you came in, expressed the wish to be helpful to others rather than to shine in cold and stately splendor.”

“Ah, yes.  Cleopatra and Helen of Troy were excellent illustrations of the splendor.  I am glad she is able to avail herself of her classical studies in conversation.”

I looked mutely at Mrs. Flaxman, but she was gazing intently into the burning coals, with a slight flush on her face, caused, I knew, by Mr. Winthrop’s words.  A few moments after I glanced at my guardian.  His eyes were closed, the lines of his face looked hard and stern.  I wondered if it never softened even in sleep, or did it always wear that look that some way brought to my mind the old Vikings of the frozen north.

Mrs. Flaxman presently arose saying it was time for us to dress for the concert.  Mr. Winthrop looked up to say he had secured us an escort, and would not accompany us.

“I thought you particularly admired Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony,” I exclaimed, with surprise.

“I do not think that crowd of amateurs will do much; although Bovyer gives them great praise.  I would as soon hear that Larkum baby crowing as to hear such a masterpiece mangled.”

“Some passages will be well rendered, surely.”

“What matter, if one is all the time dreading a discord?  I shall expect, however, a full account of the performance from you.”

“I have already heard this symphony rendered by the court musicians in Belgium.  I had no heart to practice my lessons for weeks after.”

“And why not?”

“It seemed useless for me to waste time or money over an art so far beyond my powers to master.”