about the unseen musician, they had not mentioned the subject,
although--as was inevitable under the circumstances--their intimacy had
grown. But not once had he turned from his work in that listening
attitude, or looked from the window as though half-expecting some one,
without her noting it. And, always, her eyes had flashed with resentment,
which she had promptly concealed when the painter, again turning to his
easel, had looked from his canvas to her face.

Scarcely was the artist well started in his work, that afternoon, when the
music ceased. Presently, Mrs. Taine broke her watchful silence, with the
quite casual remark; "Your musical neighbor is still unknown to you, I
suppose?"

"Yes,"--he answered smiling, as though more to himself than at her,--"we
have never tried to make her acquaintance."

The woman caught him up quickly; "To make _her_ acquaintance? Why do you
say, '_her_,' if you do not know who it is?"

The artist was confused. "Did I say, _her_?" he questioned, his face
flushed with embarrassment. "It was a slip of the tongue. Neither Conrad
Lagrange nor I know anything about our neighbor."

She laughed ironically. "And you _could_ know so easily."

"I suppose so; but we have never cared to. We prefer to accept the music
as it comes to us--impersonally--for what it is--not for whoever makes
it." He spoke coldly, as though the subject was distasteful to him, under
the circumstances of the moment.