through all his being, discovering to him depths and recesses hitherto unimagined, was unceremoniously, or with briefest apology, cut short for the sake of some suggestion from Helen.  Whether such suggestion was right or wrong, was to Faber not of the smallest consequence:  it was in itself a sacrilege, a breaking into the house of life, a causing of that to cease whose very being was its justification.  Mrs. Wingfold! she was not fit to sing in the same chorus with her!  Juliet was altogether out of sight of her.  He had heard Mrs. Wingfold sing many a time, and she could no more bring out a note like one of those she was daring to criticise, than a cat could emulate a thrush!

“Ah, Mr. Faber!—­I did not know you were there,” said Helen at length, and rose.  “We were so busy we never heard you.”

If she had looked at Juliet, she would have said I instead of we.  Her kind manner brought Faber to himself a little.

“Pray, do not apologize,” he said.  “I could have listened forever.”

“I don’t wonder.  It is not often one hears notes like those.  Were you aware what a voice you had saved to the world?”

“Not in the least.  Miss Meredith leaves her gifts to be discovered.”

“All good things wait the seeker,” said Helen, who had taken to preaching since she married the curate, some of her half-friends said; the fact being that life had grown to her so gracious, so happy, so serious, that she would not unfrequently say a thing worth saying.

In the interstices of this little talk, Juliet and Faber had shaken hands, and murmured a conventional word or two.

“I suppose this is a professional visit?” said Helen.  “Shall I leave you with your patient?”

As she put the question, however, she turned to Juliet.

“There is not the least occasion,” Juliet replied, a little eagerly, and with a rather wan smile.  “I am quite well, and have dismissed my doctor.”

Faber was in the mood to imagine more than met the ear, and the words seemed to him of cruel significance.  A flush of anger rose to his forehead, and battled with the paleness of chagrin.  He said nothing.  But Juliet saw and understood.  Instantly she held out her hand to him again, and supplemented the offending speech with the words,

“—­but, I hope, retained my friend?”

The light rushed again into Faber’s eyes, and Juliet repented afresh, for the words had wrought too far in the other direction.

“That is,” she amended, “if Mr. Faber will condescend to friendship, after having played the tyrant so long.”

“I can only aspire to it,” said the doctor.

It sounded mere common compliment, the silliest thing between man and woman, and Mrs. Wingfold divined nothing more:  she was not quick in such matters.  Had she suspected, she might, not knowing the mind of the lady have been a little perplexed.  As it was, she did not leave the room, and presently the curate entered, with a newspaper in his hand.