"Dead March," and chose her ballad--a trifle of Mr. Moggridge's
composition. It would reproach him more sharply than words, she
thought. A cloud of angry tears blurred her sight as she struck the
tinkling prelude.

"A month ago Lysander prayed To Jove,
to Cupid, and to Venus--"

_Thrum-thrum-thrum_ went the double bass next door. Mr. Moggridge
looked up. How thin and reedy Sophia's voice sounded to-night!
He had never thought so before.

"That he might die, if he betrayed
A single vow that passed between us."

"Sweetly touching!" murmured Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys.

Sophia pursued--

"O careless gods, to hear so ill,
And cheat the maid on you relying;
For false Lysander's thriving still,
And 'tis Corinna lies a-dying."

"Is that all?" asked Mrs. Goodwyn-Sandys as Sophia with flushed
cheeks left the piano.

"That is all--a little effort not worth--"

"Oh, it is yours! But," with a sweet smile, "I ought to have