Nan gazed at him in astonishment--at this new, surprising Sandy who was talking to her with the forcefulness of a man ten years his senior.

"As for being 'out of it,' as you say," he went on emphatically. "If you are, it's only by your own consent. Anyone who writes as you can need never be out of it. If you'd only do the big stuff you're capable of doing, you'd be 'in it' right enough--half the time confabbing with singers and conductors, and the other half glad to get back to your green fields and the blessed quiet. If you were like me, now--not a d.a.m.n bit of good because I've no technical knowledge . . ."

In an instant her quick sympathies responded to the note of regret which he could not keep quite out of his voice.

"Sandy, I'm a beast to grouse. It's true--you've had much harder luck." She spoke eagerly, then paused, checked by a sudden piercing memory. "But--but music . . . after all, it isn't the only thing."

"No," he returned cheerfully. "But it will do quite well to go on with. Let's toddle along to the piano and amuse each other."

She nodded, and together they made their way to the West Parlour.

"Have you written anything new?" he asked, turning over some sheets of scribbled, ma.n.u.script that were lying on the piano. "Let's hear it."

Rather reluctantly she played him a few odd bits of her recent work--the outcome of dull, depressing days.

Sandy listened, and as he listened his lips set in an uncompromising straight line.

"Well, I never heard more maudlin piffle in my life!" was his frank comment when she had finished. "If you can't do better than that, you'd better shut the piano and go digging potatoes."

Nan laughed rather mirthlessly.

"I don't know what sort of a hand you'd make at potato digging,"

pursued Sandy. "But apparently this is the net result of your musical studies"--and, seating himself at the piano, he rattled off a caustic parody of her performance.

"Rank sentimentalism, Nan," he said coolly, as he dropped his hands from the keys. "And you know it as well as I do."

"Yes, I suppose it is. But it's impossible to do any serious work here. Lady Gertrude fairly radiates disapproval whenever I spend an hour or two at the piano. Oh!"--her sense of humour rising uppermost for a moment--"she asked me to play to them one evening, so I gave them some Debussy--out of sheer devilment, I think"--smiling a little--"and at the end Lady Gertrude said politely: 'Thank you. And now, might we have something with a little more tune in it?"

Sandy shouted with delight.

"After all, people like that are awfully refreshing," he said at last.

"At times," admitted Nan. "All the same," she went on dispiritedly, "one must be in the right atmosphere to do anything worth while."

"Well, I'm exuding as much as I can," said Sandy. "Atmosphere, I mean.

Look here, what about that concerto for pianoforte and orchestra which you had in mind? Have you done anything to it yet?"

She shook her head.

"Then get on to it quick--and stick at it. Don't waste your time writing the usual type of sentimental ballad-song--a degree or two below par."

Nan was silent for a few minutes. Then:

"Sandy," she said, "you're rather like a dose of physic--wholesome but unpalatable. I'll get to work to-morrow. Now let's go and forage for some food. You've made me fearfully hungry--like a long sermon in church."

Christmas came, bringing with it, at Roger's suggestion, a visit from Lord St. John, and his presence at the house worked wonders in the way of transforming the general atmosphere. Even Lady Gertrude thawed beneath the charm of his kindly, whimsical personality, and to Nan the few days he spent at the Hall were of more value than a dozen tonics.

She was no longer shut in alone with her own thoughts--with him she could talk freely and naturally. Even the under-current of hostile criticism of which she was almost hourly conscious ceased to fret her nerves.

Insensibly Lord St. John's evident affection for his niece and quiet appreciation of her musicianship influenced Lady Gertrude for the time being, softening her att.i.tude towards her future daughter-in-law, even though it brought her no nearer understanding her. Isobel, alertly capable of adapting herself to the prevailing atmosphere, reflected in her manner the same change. She had long since learned to keep the private workings of her mind locked up--when it seemed advisable.

"I'm glad to see you in what will one day be your own home, Nan," said Lord St. John. They were sitting alone together in the West Parlour, chatting in the cosy intimacy of the firelight.

"I'd rather you saw it when it _is_ my own home," she returned with a rueful smile. "It will look very different then, I hope."

"Yet I'm glad to see it now," he repeated.

There was a slight emphasis on the word "now," and Nan glanced up in surprise.

"Why now particularly?" she asked, smiling. "Are you going to cold-shoulder me after I'm married?"

Lord St. John shook his head.

"That's very likely, isn't it?" he said, smiling. "No, my dear, that's not the reason." He paused as though searching for words, then went on quietly: "The silver chord is getting a bit frayed, you know, Nan. I'm an old man, and I'm just beginning to know it."

She caught her breath quickly and her face whitened. Then she forced a laugh.

"Nonsense, Uncle David! Kitty always declares you're the youngest of us all."

His eyes smiled back at her.

"Unfortunately, my dear, Time takes no account of a juvenile spirit.

His job is with this body of ours. But the spirit," he added dreamingly, "and its youthfulness--that's for eternity."

"But you look quite well--_quite_ well," she insisted. And her manner was the more positive because in her inmost mind she thought she could detect a slight increase of that frail appearance she had first noticed on Penelope's wedding-day.

"I've had hints, Nan--Nature's wireless. So I saw Jermyn Carter a few weeks back--"

"What did he say?" She interrupted swiftly.

"That at my age a man mustn't expect his heart to be the same as in his twenties."

A silence fell between them. Then Nan's hand stole out and clasped his. She had never imagined a world without this good comrade in it.

The bare thought of it brought a choking lump into her throat, robbing her of words. Presently St. John spoke again.

"I've nothing to grizzle about. I've known love and I've known friendship--the two biggest things in life. And, after all, since . . . since she went, I've only been waiting. The world, without her, has never been quite the same."

"I know," she whispered.

"You Davenant women," he went on more lightly, "are never loved and forgotten."

"And we don't love--and forget," said Nan in a low voice.

St. John looked at her with eyes that held a very tender comprehension.

"Tell me, Nan, was it--Peter Mallory?"

She met his glance bravely for a moment.