"Now you are poking fun at me, Mr. B. As if she would condescend to look at a poor beggar like me!"
John shut up his inkstand and began to put away his books.
"Are you going to stay much longer?" he asked.
"I shall finish this ledger and then be off. I've had about enough of figures for one day."
John presently bade the other good-night, leaving him still perched on his high stool. A sharp walk of ten minutes carried him home. He lived in a pleasant little semi-detached cottage in the suburbs. There was a small garden in front of his house and a larger one behind, with wide-stretching meadows beyond, and a low range of hills crowning the horizon.
John halted for a moment with his hand on the garden gate. A sound of music reached him from the cottage. His niece--Hermia Rivers--and Clement Hazeldine were playing a duet on the piano and violin.
"What capital time they keep!" he said to himself. "They are playing something I've never heard before. I suppose Mr. Clement has been having some new music from London."
John's terrier heard its master's footsteps on the gravel, and began to bark a welcome; the duet ceased in the middle of a bar; Hermia ran to the door, greeted her uncle with a kiss, and relieved him of his hat and coat, the cat came and purred round his legs, its tail erect in the air; his sister met him with that cheery smile without which home would not have seemed like home; and Clement Hazeldine gave him a hearty grip of the hand.
"We were missing your flute sadly," said the latter. "I have brought two or three fresh pieces this evening, and we were trying one of them over."
"You are very late, dear; but I have kept the teapot in the cosy for you," said Miss Brancker.