From his hiding-place Hubert could see nothing, but nearly all the conversation, especially that which took place at the piano, was audible to him, and this latter was all that he cared to hear. At times Conroy was so close to him that by stretching out his hand he could have touched him. He stood there as immovable as if cut in stone, with white face and passion-charged eyes, listening to the soft words of his rival, and to the still softer accents that responded to them. Yet the words themselves were commonplace enough; it was the hidden something in their tone that lent them their sweet significance. If Hubert Stone had expected to overhear any lover-like confidences, in which people who are trembling on the verge of the great confession are sometimes wont to indulge, he was mistaken.
"Mrs. Carlyon tells me that you have promised to spend a week or two in London with her a little later on," said Conroy.
"Yes, I have," answered Ella.
"You will find London deserted, I fear."
"So much the better. I never care for a crowd."
"Mrs. Carlyon has been so good as to give me a general invitation to call upon her. I hope I shall see you during your stay."
All Ella's heart leapt into her face at these words. She turned away her head under the pretence of looking at the others.
"It is quite a treat to watch the Vicar play backgammon: he seems to give his whole mind to the game," she said, and then she turned to Conroy again. "You have the fortune to be a great favourite with my aunt, Mr. Conroy," she went on. "I am sure she will be very pleased to see you in town, and--so shall I. If you will look in the canterbury, and find me that piece by Schubert which you said you liked so much when you were here last, I will play it for you again this evening."
The piece was played, and then they fell to talking again. Conroy asked Ella whether she really meant to inhabit the Hall during the winter.
"Yes; why not?" was the answer. "I love the old place. It is my home, and that means everything."