"It wasn't your answer that brought me. It hadn't arrived when I came away."
"You'll see when you get back that my letter is charming."
"I daresay." Baron had observed that the room was not, as she had intimated, in confusion—Mrs. Ryves's preparations for departure were not striking. She saw him look round and, standing in front of the fireless grate with her hands behind her, she suddenly asked: "Where have you come from now?"
"From an interview with a literary friend."
"What are you concocting between you?"
"Nothing at all. We've fallen out—we don't agree."
"Is he a publisher?"
"He's an editor."
"Well, I'm glad you don't agree. I don't know what he wants, but, whatever it is, don't do it."
"He must do what I want!" said Baron.
"And what's that?"
"Oh, I'll tell you when he has done it!" Baron begged her to let him hear the "musical idea" she had mentioned in her letter; on which she took off her hat and jacket and, seating herself at her piano, gave him, with a sentiment of which the very first notes thrilled him, the accompaniment of his song. She phrased the words with her sketchy sweetness, and he sat there as if he had been held in a velvet vise, throbbing with the emotion, irrecoverable ever after in its freshness, of the young artist in the
