“You cannot think too highly—­cannot possibly She has a remarkable character.  For one thing, I never knew a girl with such strong sympathies—­so large-hearted and compassionate.  You heard her remark about the beggars; if she had her own way, she would support a colony of pensioners.  Let the sentimentalists say what they like, that isn’t a common weakness in women, you know.  Her imagination is painfully active; I’m afraid it causes her a great deal of misery.  The other day I found her in tears, and what do you think was the reason?—­she had been reading in some history about a poor fellow who was persecuted for his religion in Charles the First’s time—­ some dissenter who got into the grip of Laud, was imprisoned, and then brought to destitution by being forbidden to exercise each calling that he took to in hope of earning bread.  The end was, he went mad and died.  Lilian was crying over the story; it made her wretched for a whole day.”

“Rather morbid, that, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t know; most of us would be better for a little of such morbidness.  You mustn’t suppose that fiction would have the same effect on her—­not at all.  That poor devil (his name, I remember, was Workman) was really and truly hounded to insanity and the grave, and she saw the thing in all its dreadful details.  I would rather she had got into a rage about it, as I should—­but that isn’t her nature.”

“Let us hope she could rejoice when Laud was laid by the heels.”

“I fear not.  I’m afraid she would forget, and make excuses for the blackguard.”

Glazzard smiled at the ceiling, and smoked silently.  Turning his eyes at length, and seeing Quarrier in a brown study, he contemplated the honest face, then asked: 

“How old is she?”

“Just one-and-twenty.”

“I should have thought younger.”

Nothing more was said of Lilian, and very soon they went to the room where she awaited them.

“I know you are a musician, Mr. Glazzard,” said Lilian before long.  “Will you let me have the pleasure of hearing you play something?”

“Some enemy hath done this,” the guest made reply, looking towards Denzil.

But without further protest he went to the piano and played two or three short pieces.  Any one with more technical knowledge than the hearers would have perceived that he was doing his best.  As it was, Lilian frequently turned to Denzil with a look of intense delight.

“Glazzard,” exclaimed his friend at length, “it puzzles me how such a lazy fellow as you are has managed to do so much in so many directions.”

The musician laughed carelessly, and, not deigning any other reply, went to talk with his hostess.

CHAPTER IV