"Yes," said Northcote, "you shall say that."
"A man must have fear of some kind," said the solicitor, "if he is to succeed against enormous odds."
"There may be a place for it in his reflections, but never in his resolves. Hence you will discern how our reticence has its basis in our cowardice."
"Subtle brute," said Mr. Whitcomb, giving his mustache a tug of perplexity. "He is entering upon his special function of turning black into white."
"Nay," said Northcote, "the subtlety is not mine, but Francis Bacon's."
"Good, O Advocate!" said the lady, as she rewarded him with bright eyes. "You do well to confute the Philistine with a learned name."
Again the young man carried the jewelled hand to his lips. He felt the lithe fingers respond with a sweet and secret motion.
"Rogue!" said the solicitor, laughing. "George Sand and De Musset—Polly Whitcomb and the greengrocer at the back door. Well, Mischief, as you have entered into a compact with this fellow to get him his way, play us another bit of a tune, he shall keep his brief, and we will go to bed."
"I knew we should force him to capitulate," said Northcote to the siren, as he arranged the stool before the piano.
"What must I play?" she said, looking down at her hands.
"Play me a bit of Beethoven, so that I may take him out with me into the darkness of the streets."
She played three movements of a symphony, and
