After supper they were wont to gather in Mrs. Frost's parlour or in the
old bar before the great hearth on which a splendid fire always blazed;
and when the Marquis had had his special cup of black coffee, he would
get out his violin and play to them the long evening through. He played
well, with the skill of a master of the art, and with feeling. He seemed
at such times to forget himself and his surroundings; his bright eyes
would grow soft, a dreamy look would steal into them, and a happy little
smile play about the corners of his thin pale lips. Obligingly he gave
Dan lessons, and often the young man would accompany him, in the songs
his mother had known and loved in her youth, when old Peter had come
wooing with fiddle in hand.

But best of all were the evenings when the Marquis chose to improvise.
Plaintive, tender melodies for the most part; prolonged trembling,
faintly-expiring airs; and sometimes harsh, strident notes that evoked
weird echoes from the bare wainscoted walls. Mrs. Frost would sit, tears
of sadness and of pleasure in her eyes, the kindly homely features of her
face moving with interest and delight. Nancy was usually by the table,
her sharp little chin propped up on the palms of her hands, never taking
her fascinated gaze from the musician. Sometimes Tom would look at her
and wonder of what she could be thinking. For certainly her spirit seemed
to be far away wandering in a world of dreams and of strange
inexpressible emotions. For Tom the music stirred delicate thoughts
bright dreams of beauty and of love; the vivid intangible dreams of
awakening youth. He had not had much experience with emotion; the story
of his love affairs contained no more dramatic moments than the stealing
of occasional kisses from the glowing cheeks of Maria Stonywell, the
beauty of the Tinterton road, as he had walked back to the old farm with
her on moonlight evenings.