“My congratulations.  Still, I hope this unexpected windfall isn’t going to keep you off the concert platform altogether?”

“Not more than my own distaste for playing in public,” she answered.  “I’d much rather write music than perform.”

“I can hardly believe you really dislike the publicity?  The fascination of it grows on most of us.”

“I know it does.  I suppose that accounts for the endless farewell concerts a declining singer generally treats us to.”

There was an unwonted touch of sharpness in her voice, and Fenton glanced at her in some surprise.  It was unlike her to give vent to such an acid little speech.  He could not know, of course, that Kitty’s light-hearted remark concerning Peter Mallory’s facilities for studying the feminine temperament was still rankling somewhere at the back of her mind.

“There’s a big element of pathos in those farewell concerts,” he submitted gently.  “You pianists have a great advantage over the singer, whose instrument must inevitably deteriorate with the passing years.”

Nan’s quick sympathies responded instantly.

“I think I must be getting soured in my old age,” she answered remorsefully.  “What you say is dreadfully true.  It’s the saddest part of a singer’s career.  And I always clap my hardest at a farewell concert.  I do, really!”

Fenton smiled down at her.

“I shall count on you, then, when I give mine.”

Nan laughed.

“It’s a solemn pledge—­provided I’m still cumbering the ground.  And now, tell me, are you singing here this evening?”

“I promised Mrs. Seymour.  Would you be good enough to accompany?”

“I should love it.  What are you going to sing?”

“Miss Craig and I proposed to give a duet.”

“And here comes Kitty—­to claim your promise, I guess.”

A few minutes later the two singers’ voices were blending delightfully together, while Nan’s slight, musician’s fingers threaded their way through intricacies of the involved accompaniment.

She was a wonderful accompanist—­rarest of gifts—­and when, at the end of the song, the restrained, well-bred applause broke out, Peter Mallory’s share of it was offered as much to the accompanist as to the singers themselves.

“Stay where you are, Nan,” cried Kitty, as the girl half rose from the music-seat.  “Stay where you are and play us something.”

Knowing Nan’s odd liking for a dim light, she switched off most of the burners as she spoke, leaving only one or two heavily shaded lights still glowing.  Mallory crossed the room so that, as he stood leaning with one elbow on the chimney-piece, he faced the player, on whose aureole of dusky hair one of the lights still burning cast a glimmer.  While he waited for her to begin, he was aware of a little unaccustomed thrill of excitement, as though he were on the verge of some discovery.