set some Tibetan prayer-wheels going."

A gleam of enjoyment shot from Hubert's eyes, and a laugh almost
escaped him.

"Ah, just so--just so!" said Mr. Gray, a little discomfited. "But
would it be better not to say it?"

"It would be better to mean it," said Mr. Bond.

"He parries well," thought Hubert.

"Winifred," said Mrs. Gray, off whose smooth nature these discussions
rolled harmlessly, "the music was very fine this morning."

Winifred, who would have preferred almost any subject to this, cast an
appealing glance at her mother, but it was unheeded. She had hoped Mr.
Bond would not recognize her as the singer.

Mrs. Gray went on: "Mrs. Butterworth, who sits just the other side of
the partition from us, you know, was quite carried away. She looked
volumes at me, but she just whispered 'heavenly!' She said after
church she hoped you would come to her party next week and bring your
songs. You have such a gift, she said."

And Mrs. Gray herself sighed religiously at the thought of Winnie's
"gift." Winnie could have sighed, too, but it was with torture.

Mrs. Gray was a comfortable lady, absorbed in the quiet machinery of a
conventionally proper life. She loved her family, her church, and a