There was a dead silence. The admirer of Miss Thyra Flowerdew looked
much annoyed, and twiddled his watch-chain. He had meant to say
"Philadelphia," but he did not think it necessary to own to his mistake.

"What impertinence!" said one of the ladies to Miss Blake. "What can she
know about it? Is she not the young person who tuned the piano?"

"Perhaps she tunes Miss Thyra Flowerdew's piano!" suggested Miss Blake,
in a loud whisper.

"You are right, madam," said the little girl, quietly. "I have often
tuned Miss Flowerdew's piano."

There was another embarrassing silence; and then a lovely old lady, whom
every one reverenced, came to the rescue.

"I think her playing is simply superb," she said. "Nothing that I ever
hear satisfies me so entirely. She has all the tenderness of an angel's
touch."

"Listening to her," said the major, who had now recovered from his
annoyance at being interrupted, "one becomes unconscious of her
presence, for she _is the music itself_. And that is rare. It is but
seldom nowadays that we are allowed to forget the personality of the
player. And yet her personality is an unusual one; having once seen her,
it would not be easy to forget her. I should recognise her anywhere."

As he spoke, he glanced at the little tuner, and could not help admiring
her dignified composure under circumstances which might have been