"No; she would not yawn in their faces," said Dick. "And what was the subject of your theory, Tom? And how did it come that you had no need for the rolls of music you took with you to her lodgings?"
"'Love and its Interpretation by Music'--that was the point upon which she expressed the liveliest interest," said Tom.
"Oh, this is no place for me; I am too young," cried Polly demurely, as she rose from her chair and went to the door.
"Polly has become insufferable," said Tom in a tone of irritation. "Of course, any one who has studied music knows that it is a science."
"It is assuredly a science. Language is a science, I have often heard my father assert; and since music can interpret the language of love into phrases that can be easily understood, it must be granted a place among the sciences," said Dick. "But is't possible that Mrs. Abington would not listen to your demonstration of this science on your violin?"
"_Cielo!_ Why do you suggest that she would not listen?" cried Tom.
"Why, man, have you not just said that you had no need of the rolls of music which you carried with you?" said Dick.
"Oh, I had no need for the printed music. I improvised for her," replied Tom.
"In the Italian fashion?" inquired Dick. "Well, I am certain that you had a most sympathetic listener to your phrases of interpretation. She is, as you say, devoted to--to--science."
"She was more than sympathetic," cried Tom. "Oh, it is a better instruction for one to play to such a listener than to receive a lesson from a Maestro."
"Mrs. Abington is undoubtedly fully qualified to give lessons," said Dick. "I am sure you will learn much from her, Tom, if you give her your attention."
Dick stayed to supper with the Linley family; and in spite of the thought that this was probably the last of many delightful suppers at the house in Pierrepont Street--the reflection came to him often in the course of the evening after a burst of merriment from the children, in which Betsy and he joined, Tom being the only one to remain grave--he felt quite happy. To be sure his happiness was tinged with melancholy; but this fact did not cause it to be diminished--nay, his gentle melancholy seemed only to have the qualities of a tender summer mist at sunset, which makes the sun seem larger and gives it colour. The gentle sadness of his reflections only impressed him more deeply with a sense of his happiness--his happiness which arose from a sense of self-sacrifice. In the presence of Betsy he had lost sight of himself, as it were. He gave no thought to the certainty of his own lonely future. He could only think of the possibility of happiness which awaited his dear Betsy.