IV

It was late in June. A haze wimpled the pine-trees of Shovelstrode, and the heather between their trunks was in full flower. The old house shimmered in the haze and sunshine, and stared away to yellow fields of buttercups and distances of brown and blue.

Tony and Awdrey Strife were lying in the shadow of a chestnut on the lawn. Two young gracious figures in muslins, they lay with their chins on their hands, and looked away towards the golden weald. They did not speak much, for the post had just come, and they were reading their letters. Awdrey giggled to herself a good deal over hers, but Tony was serious—the corners of her mouth even drooped a little, but whether from sorrow or tenderness or both it would be hard to say. Suddenly she made an exclamation.

"What's the matter?" asked Awdrey.

"It's a letter from Furlonger."

"The Furlonger!"

"Yes—he's written me quite a long letter."

"What cheek. I thought you'd seen the last of him."

"He came to say good-bye before he went to London."

"Oh——"

Awdrey rolled over on her side, and stared hard at her sister.

"Did he know you were in town last month?"

"No—I've never written to him, and this is the first time he's written to me."

"Then he hasn't shown unseemly eagerness—it's nearly six months since he left. What does he say?—anything exciting?"

"Exciting for him. Von Gleichroeder is giving a pupils' concert at the Bechstein, and Mr. Furlonger is going to play."

"A solo?"

"Yes—something by Scriabin. He's only had six months' teaching, but von Gleichroeder's so pleased with him that he's going to let him play at this concert of his. Then he'll finish his course, and then he'll start professionally."

"Good Lord!—it sounds thrilling for an ex-convict. Let's see his letter."

"Here it is. No," changing suddenly, "I think I'd rather read it to you."

"Right-O! Excuse a smile."

"Don't be an idiot, Awdrey. Now listen; he says: 'Von Gleichroeder's concert is fixed for the twenty-seventh'—why, that's next Friday—'and it's been settled that I'm to play Scriabin's second Prelude. It sounds like cats fighting, but it's exciting stuff. Von Gleichroeder is tremendously keen on the ultra-moderns—nothing makes him madder than to hear Verdi or Gounod or Rossini. So I play d'Indy and Stravinsky and Strauss and Sibelius; except when I'm alone in my digs—and then I have the old tunes out, for I like them best.'"

She did not read the next paragraph aloud.

"I've been having a hard fight for it, Tony—but I'm pulling through. Music has helped me, and the memory of our friendship, and the thought that you're trying to understand me and forgive me."

"Well, I wish him luck," said Awdrey; "what a good thing von Gleichroeder found him out!"

"Yes, he'll have his chance now—his chance of a decent life."

"Nonsense, Tony! That's not what he's after—fame and dibs, my dear girl, fame and dibs."

"He told me he was accepting von Gleichroeder's offer because he wanted to be—good."

"Well, London's a queer place to go for that."

"He's gone there to work. He had no chance here."

"More chance than he'll have there—you bet he's painted the place pretty red by this time."

Her sister was about to retort sharply, when a man suddenly came round the corner of the house towards them.

"Awdrey!" cried Tony, springing up. "Here's Quentin!"