Ethelberta went to her room, sent away the maid who did double duty for herself and Lady Petherwin, walked in circles about the carpet till the fire had grown haggard and cavernous, sighed, took a sheet of paper and wrote:—­

’Dear Mr. Julian,—­I have said I would not write:  I have said it twice; but discretion, under some circumstances, is only another name for unkindness.  Before thanking you for your sweet gift, let me tell you in a few words of something which may materially change an aspect of affairs under which I appear to you to deserve it.

’With regard to my history and origin you are altogether mistaken; and how can I tell whether your bitterness at my previous silence on those points may not cause you to withdraw your act of courtesy now?  But the gratification of having at last been honest with you may compensate even for the loss of your respect.

’The matter is a small one to tell, after all.  What will you say on learning that I am not the trodden-down “lady by birth” that you have supposed me?  That my father is not dead, as you probably imagine; that he is working for his living as one among a peculiarly stigmatized and ridiculed multitude?

’Had he been a brawny cottager, carpenter, mason, blacksmith, well- digger, navvy, tree-feller—­any effective and manly trade, in short, a worker in which can stand up in the face of the noblest and daintiest, and bare his gnarled arms and say, with a consciousness of superior power, “Look at a real man!” I should have been able to show you antecedents which, if not intensely romantic, are not altogether antagonistic to romance.  But the present fashion of associating with one particular class everything that is ludicrous and bombastic overpowers me when I think of it in relation to myself and your known sensitiveness.  When the well-born poetess of good report melts into. . .’

Having got thus far, a faint-hearted look, which had begun to show itself several sentences earlier, became pronounced.  She threw the writing into the dull fire, poked and stirred it till a red inflammation crept over the sheet, and then started anew:—­

’Dear Mr. Julian,—­Not knowing your present rank as composer—­whether on the very brink of fame, or as yet a long way off—­I cannot decide what form of expression my earnest acknowledgments should take.  Let me simply say in one short phrase, I thank you infinitely!

’I am no musician, and my opinion on music may not be worth much:  yet I know what I like (as everybody says, but I do not use the words as a form to cover a hopeless blank on all connected with the subject), and this sweet air I love.  You must have glided like a breeze about me—­seen into a heart not worthy of scrutiny, jotted down words that cannot justify attention—­before you could have apotheosized the song in so exquisite