They had indeed done their best for Sandy himself in that respect, negativing firmly his desire for proper musical tuition, with the result that now, at twenty years of age, he was a musician spoilt through lack of training.  Most of his pocket-money in early days had been expended upon surreptitious violin lessons, and he had frequently practised for hours out of doors in the woods, at a distance from the house which secured the parental ear from outrage.

Since her husband’s death, however, Eliza, chiding herself the while for her weakness, had yielded to a pulsing young enthusiasm that would not be denied, and music of a secular nature was permitted at Trevarthen—­unchecked though disapproved.

Thus it came about that on the afternoon of Nan’s visit Sandy was to be found zealously absorbed in the composition of a triumphal march.  The blare of trumpets, the swinging tramp of marching men and the thunderous roll of drums—­this last occurring very low down in the bass—­were combining to fill the room with joyful noise when there came a light tap at the open French window and Nan herself stood poised on the threshold.

“Hullo, Sandy, what’s that you’re playing?”

Sandy sprang off the music stool, beaming with delight, and, seizing her by both arms, drew her rapturously into the room.

“You’re the very person I want,” he exclaimed without further greeting.  “It’s a march, and I don’t know whether I like this modulation into D minor or not.  Listen.”

Nan obeyed, gave her opinion, and finally subsided rather listlessly into a low arm-chair.

“Give me a cigarette, Sandy.  It’s an awfully tiring walk here.  Is Aunt Eliza in?  I hope she is, because I want some tea.”

“She is.  But I’d give you tea if she wasn’t.”

“And set the whole of St. Wennys gossiping!  It wouldn’t be proper, boy.”

“Oh, yes, it would.  I count as a kind of cousin, you know.”

“All the same, Mrs. Petherick at the lodge would confide the information that we’d had tea alone together to Miss Penwarne at the Post Office, and in half an hour the entire village would be all agog to know when the subsequent elopement was likely to occur.”

Sandy grinned.  He had proposed to Nan several times already, only to be good-naturedly turned down.

“I’d supply a date with pleasure.”

Nan shook her head at him.

“A man may not marry his grandmother.”

He struck a match and held it while she lit her cigarette.  Then, blowing out the flame, he enquired: 

“Does that apply when she’s only three years his senior?”

“Oh, Sandy, I’m aeons older than you.  A woman always is. 
Besides”—­her words hurrying a little—­“I’m engaged already.”

“Engaged?”

He dropped the dead match he was still holding and stared out of the window a moment.  Then, squaring his shoulders, he said quietly: