They had travelled many posts, at a sort of
steady amble, along a high road "moderato,"
until they reached the last bar, when it was
thought they would draw rein and bait. But
Lady Laura, who had secured end chairs for her
party, a judicious coigne of 'vantage, and who
already was suffering mental and physical pain,
and had been glancing wearily from side to
side, now sadly convinced that a harem-like
seclusion was indeed to prevail, saw with a sudden
sinking of the heart, each page "turned back," and
the four artists begin their journey again. It was
a "repeat." When the stage was happily
accomplished, there was a little pause, and Lord
Putnenham led off applause, with interjections of
"What tone! I never heard tone before!"
Then came an entreating "Hus-sh!" for the
"quatuor" had recovered its instruments, and
was proceeding into the "adagio."

This might be described to be a musical interment
—they proceeded at such a slow and
mournful walk—Ragwitz Bêla leading and
drawing out wailing strokes with contortionate
agonies—sometimes laying his fiddle like a dish
under his own throat, as though he were anxious
to decollate himself on the spot; sometimes
quivering and straining as though he wished to
drive his fiddle into his neck and lay it finally
against the short joints of the spine; sometimes
struggling with it, sometimes beckoning with it;
sometimes making spasms with his knee and
foot, as though he wished to rise and fly through
the air with it. The others went to the work
gloomily, and with awful concentration; and
Piletti, who had charge of the violincello, seemed
to have a conveniently-shaped coffin between his
knees.

The mortuary music was at last over. Lady
Laura, already worn and haggard, but still
"coming up smiling," was feeling the cane
pressure acutely. Poor soul! she was old and
tall of figure, and required little comforts at
home and abroad, not the rafter-like support
imparted by cane chairs. Yet she smiled on, and
took care that smiling should be kept up in the
ranks; and when Providence at last brought the
"first part" to a conclusion, she had a smile for
Lord Putnenham drifting by her, and an ejaculation
of ecstasy, "How lovely! Did you ever
hear anything like it?"

A light and airy repast (as though the host
was belonging to a severe Order) was laid on the
stairs; and yet the company poured out and
flung themselves on it with an avidity that
seemed to hint that they had been shipwrecked,
and newly taken off a rock.

Mrs. Fermor sat penned up on a centre chair,
her eyes fixed on Ragwitz Bêla, whom she
thought divine. Miss Manuel was in another
part, while Fermor made part of a small crowd,
herded together at the door.

Rude persons were pressing on him; and
early in the night, when he was whispering a
pleasant sarcasm to Young Bridges, Lord
Putnenham had tapped him bluntly on the shoulder,
and said, rather roughly, "You must go outside
if you want to talk." He was looking over at
Miss Manuel—looking sourly—for sitting beside
her was that "low, ill-bred, insolent" Mr.
Romaine, who had been so forward at the brougham
door.

At this happy release—the end of the first part
—Mr. Romaine left Miss Manuel, and came over
to Mrs. Fermor. A cane chair creaked as he
dropped into it. Fermor was about offering to
take down Miss Manuel, when Lord Putnenham,
just behind him, touched him on the arm: "Beg
pardon, let me pass, please. Miss Manuel,
come!" And Miss Manuel went away gaily on
Lord Putuenham's arm.

As she passed Mrs. Fermor she stooped down
and whispered, " Be kind to poor Romaine
tonight. He is afraid of you. He is to be pitied,
poor fellow. Guess who are here—the
Massingers, who were to have been in Rome. You
will, I am sure."And pressing her arm
affectionately, she passed on.

"You are still angry," said Mr. Romaine; "I
can see it. Yet I am the one who ought to suffer,
after that awful onslaught on me the other day."

Mrs. Fermor bit her red lip, but smiled in
spite of herself. "You began," she said.

"I know," he said; "I always begin. Every
man and every woman tells me so. And yet I
cannot help it. I am worried and tried. No
one understands me, or, of course, tries to
understand me. Why should they, indeed?"

Mrs. Fermor looked at him with bright and
sympathising eyes.

"You judge us all very harshly," she said;
"we are not all so bad as you think."

"Why not?" he said. "I begin to hate the
world. I used to believe in it. I found my
account in it, for I never accepted the rubbish
about a 'hollow world,' and its faithlessness, and
that cant. But now I feel shaken. I have seen
something to-night that has shaken me. If that
faith has left me, I have nothing to trust to."

Mrs. Fermor was filled with a sort of missionary
enthusiasm. She thought how, in her own weak
way, she might confirm and strengthen this
strange being.

"I can feel for you," she said, softly, "indeed
I can. But I would not give way, if you would
listen to me. I would fight bravely—as I know
you have done," she added, colouring a little at
her own boldness; "you would struggle on, and
you would find strength as you went on, and you
would, at the end, conquer, and conquer splendidly.
You should do that, Mr. Romaine, and
you would be helped by the sympathies of your
friends."

She was quite excited, and he looked at her
half astonished, half interested. The look,
however, was gradually gliding into a sneer. "But
no," he said, "I won't. I was going to be
sarcastic about 'struggles,' &c., but I won't. Thank
you. I really do thank you for your advice. Not
that I think it will profit me, for I am past that,
but I thank you all the same."