sight of Montague Street and Grace's window and walked back almost as far as Regent Circus. Then he hailed a hansom and went to Montague Street again. This time he went into the house.
Grace was at the piano when he was shown into the drawing-room.
"Godfrey is out," she said, and blushed a little.
"If he won't be long I can wait," said George; "but don't stop playing on my account, unless you are tired. I have had rather a bad night. Some music is just what I want."
"I did not sleep very well either," said Grace. "I suppose it's the weather—the sudden change."
"I dare say it is," said George, but they each avoided the other's eyes.
"What shall I play?" said Grace, hurriedly.
He began to turn over the loose music by her side.
"What is this?" he said. "Gounod and Shelley. 'The fountains mingle with the river.' I should like that."
"I will sing it," said Grace. She had a clear, rather melodious voice, and it had been well-trained. On that particular day she sang even better than usual, and managed to throw something which passed for passion into the song. But the song itself easily passes for passion, on paper.
When she had finished, George cast about him for something to say. "That is Art," he got out at last, "the real thing. Thank you."
"It is a man's song really," said Grace.
"Why?"
"Well, I think a man ought to sing it. Of course it is a man speaking. A woman wouldn't make love
