The curate was not thinking at all, and he got up and put down his cup with a clatter.
"Very sweet and pretty," he said; "it quite reminds me of a little Italian thing I once heard on a military band at Leamington. Have you ever taken the waters at Leamington, Mr. Raleigh?"
"Play something else," said Lady Joan, abruptly, for the spell was working well, she thought, and she smiled triumphantly again at the tears in Norah's eyes.
This time Lady Joan walked to the window and stepped out on the terrace.
"Have you seen the lake in moonlight, Mr. Johnson?" she called out when the music stopped; and the curate followed her into the garden.
The musician crossed over to the couch by the other window, and sat down on a chair close to it.
"Norah," he said in a low tone, "do you know when I wrote the last thing I played?"
She said nothing, and her fingers trembled.
"I wrote it when you went away, last time, with your father. It was full of tears for you."
She still kept her face turned from him, and she spoke almost in a whisper.