The next day my solitary contemplation was interrupted by another over-stuffed luncheon, complete with the latest complaints from the master of the house and summaries of all the town gossip from the lady. These tales passed harmlessly through my ears until distasteful news arrived by way of Lisette, who confided with Madame in rapid French while clearing the table: the driver had been overheard admonishing the stable boy, his young son, discovered hurrying home late for tea the previous evening attempting to hide his wet hair and dishevelled clothes. The boy was given a good tongue-lashing and confined to the stable.

I was mystified over these boys’ continued access to the pond and could not put my questions to rest, pacing a good track into the dirt around the back of the stable as I sifted through the problem. Before the Master took the coach back into town I managed to place myself on the back of the carriage for an unobtrusive--if dusty--ride. After the Master had stepped away to his place of work I appeared and, without explanation, requested the services of the stupefied driver. I persuaded him to stop in the main street so that I could drop in on the local doctors and gave the suggestion that he enjoy an hour in the pub, which had the result of lightening the scowl permanently entrenched in his face.

Representing myself as a student of paediatric medicine I requested information about treating common injuries suffered by the juvenile population. Although one doctor was out on rounds, the attending physician did give me a few minutes of his time; I inquired as to the best method of treating acute animal bites, and also queried about the frequency and consequences of dog bites in particular. The stoic doctor gave the surprising reply that there were no recent bites to report, and a sparse and commonplace history of dog-bite in past months.

I was dissatisfied with this result but secretly delighted to discover that this doctor had some experience with the deaths in question; he was present at the pronouncement of death of the two drowning victims the previous summer. One had a cracked skull, the other a large contusion on the head, both roughly in the same location; the latter also appeared to have a fractured wrist. The boys were rather scuffed all over, he remarked, with many various bruises, but this was typical for this rough type of boy, and indicated nothing unexpected as far as fatal diving injuries were concerned.

I left the doctor’s office with a spinning head. The doctor was blasé in his descriptions--even stifling a yawn on two occasions--yet the facts made little sense to me. How likely was it that two boys diving in a pond, even diving off the same rock, would strike their heads a lethal blow in almost the same spot on the skull--and, ostensibly, at the same time? And, most baffling, no serious dog bites in the past four weeks? Those seemingly vicious guard dogs were either totally incompetent, or rather effective actors. My head was filled with images of a long underground tunnel to the pond, or of scruffy boys with wings. I decided that the only way to replace these useless images was with a first-hand inspection.

As we pulled away from town I requested that the driver drop me off along the country road, as I wished to go for a long walk. Walk I did, but as he drove out of sight I promptly turned around and headed toward the Smith estate, where I arrived, huffing a bit and damp with sweat, in about half an hour. I immediately left the road and moved toward the back of the property, searching for the mysterious pond.

On the east side of the estate the stone fence was replaced by a thick hedge, also about six feet high, and penetrable only by an occasional ray of light. I drifted along the hedge, alternately stooping and rising to peer through the foliage; so involved was I in my search that I failed to realise the humour of my awkward dance. Along a higher piece of ground, in the shade of dancing green saplings, my line of sight through the hedge was blocked by some massive dark object which lay just inside. I worked a hand through the scratching branches and ran my fingers over a remarkably ponderous stone. The stone, roughly chipped but smoothed from years of weathering, was at least three feet high, and located just inches from the hedge. It appeared to provide an excellent stepping stone for travelling boys.

As it was a sunny, hot afternoon, I stepped back and hid myself away in a shrub and waited patiently for any sign of trespassing bathers. During my wait, I kept myself entertained with familiar phrases from Beethoven’s Sixth, with bits of Mendelssohn’s Scottish Symphony woven in. Shifting periodically to place my body in the meagre shade, I found it impossible not to wonder how much cooler it was in the Scottish Highlands than at my present location.

The shadow cast by my hiding place had grown quite long when I heard rustling and murmuring a short distance behind me. A group of three ragged boys appeared, peered into the trees for a minute or two, and then scrambled over the hedge, one by one, onto the property. I stood to watch them scurry away and disappear into the shadows of the trees. On the tips of my toes I stared over the hedge and listened intently, but there was neither sight nor sound of the dogs.

After a few minutes, hot with curiousity, I hoisted myself over the hedge to observe the rock more closely. I strained against it with all of my strength with only an inch to show for my effort; this huge stone could only have been placed by a crowd of ingenious boys, or by two or three rather large men. When I sat upon the stone and carefully scanned the trees I soon noticed, between the house and the pond, a peculiar little tree-house tucked away in a massive tree. It appeared to be a simple box shape: four solid walls and a roof. Curiously, one wall contained a small window, with a curtain wafting gently in the breeze.

I then followed the hedge back to the road and quickly strolled to the front gate. Although it was impossible to squeeze my body through the elaborate iron work, I was able, with some effort, to swing my wiry frame over the stone fence and carefully wind my way through the trees, listening for any sound from the ineffective canines. I was still some distance from the manor when I saw a kennel, fenced in with chicken wire, next to the stable; the three dogs were inside, and eagerly finishing their evening meal. I waited inside an accommodating bush for some time, but the dogs were penned up for the better part of an hour.

Then a small, stocky blonde-haired man--judging by appearance, a servant of some kind--released the dogs, which started to sniff the air with increasing interest. I was eager to observe this man further but the sky was beginning to darken, and the roaming, growling dogs encouraged my quick departure.

Even though I managed to hook a lift on the back of a ignorant, swiftly-moving brougham the sky was almost completely dark when I arrived back at home, breathing hard and covered in dust and pollen. I received quite a scolding from my hosts for missing the evening meal, and in a few biting words the Master henceforth forbade me to use his coach again, for any reason. My humble and sincere apologies for my carelessness, and Madame’s good word on my behalf, reduced this punishment so that I was allowed to use the coach--but only if I were accompanied by a chaperone at every moment.

—————

I spent the next two days efficiently avoiding everyone and everything, immersed in books and sombre contemplation, a reverie intermixed with visits from brilliant memories of the past year’s events, some as unavoidable and unforgettable as recalling one’s own name. On Saturday, however, my meditation was interrupted by a compulsory luncheon and, most unexpectedly, by the appearance of a letter from my violin tutor, with a cursory apology from the master of the house for failing to deliver it the previous day.

My music tutor, Mr. Carvin, was a musician born in the town and, to my dismay, a man with no plans to leave it; he possessed great talent but was somehow lacking in ambition, content to teach violin and piano to mostly unappreciative locals. His note described in elegant but hurried hand-writing how an upcoming recital in a nearby town would feature his performance of the Mendelssohn violin concerto, which he had decided to include as a last-minute decision considering my intense interest in the piece.* His assumption that I would attend was implicit and unmistakable. The performance was to take place that very evening; my joyful exclamation was immediately followed by muttered curses as I remembered my absurd punishment.

My distinguished hosts were not at all inclined to accompany me to the concert, even Madame, who displayed a glimmer of musical interest but opined that it was too great a distance to travel. Less than a minute after her denial, however, she suddenly brightened and stated that she was going for a walk, promptly collected her hat, and disappeared.

I spent many minutes curled in the library’s corner chair in anguish and confusion, trying to think of a way to gather up money for cab fare, or a plot to steal the coach. By the time it occurred to me where she might have gone, she was walking through the doorway with a triumphant smile.

"Well, as it turns out, Miss Elton would also love to attend the concert. You can borrow a suitable coat and hat, I’m sure. We’ll leave at six. I had better start getting ready right away!" And off she floated.

—————

"Oh my, but you look radiant, Jane. And such a lovely dress," cooed Madame, as the coach pulled away.

The dress was certainly taking up its share of the carriage, as I shifted my legs to avoid it and settled my feet in between the billowing, rustling skirts of the two ladies. I did at least have ample room for my arms, as both women were sitting on the opposite side, and I continued staring down into my book.

"I’m so glad you could join us tonight. We’ve really looked forward to this concert, and it is all the more enjoyable to have you with us." Madame smiled at us both, nodded encouragingly, received no response, and shrugged.

"Don’t be offended, my dear Jane, if he doesn’t speak to you. He will never chat on journeys. I have been from one side of the country to the other with him and he will not say a word. I cannot begin to understand it."

"That’s all right, Madame, I am rather quiet myself," murmured Jane, folding her hands on her lap and gazing blankly out of the window. Her eyes caught a ray of sunlight passing through, and I was struck by the dissimilarity between the deep brown, searching eyes of the lady on her left, and the unmoving, grey-green haziness of the young woman.

I very happily went through the next ten or twenty pages of my book without interruption, although I recall that the perfectly coifed lady offered many trifling remarks with the intent of starting a conversation with poor Jane, who was staring at the shifting clouds, frozen in place, holding every thought in her mind as a prisoner behind bars. At one point Madame managed to discover that Jane had an interest in French art, and even extracted a brief exchange in French from the girl. But upon our arrival at the hall, Jane was stubbornly unresponsive, the lady was brimming with frustration, and I was quietly ecstatic to be approaching the musical horizon of Mendelssohn.

The hall was filled to capacity not by attendees, which were sparse, but by a stuffy and slightly mouldy atmosphere. The hard wooden benches assaulted my backside and the heavy draperies and badly-rendered paintings offended my eyes, which left only the aural delights of Bach, Beethoven, and of course, Mendelssohn to comfort the soul. Before the appearance of my esteemed tutor, we were confronted with a tenor, who presented an acceptable sample of Schubert; the shrill soprano who followed made the murky paintings more interesting, although the mezzo-soprano’s rendition of "When I am laid in Earth" possessed a morbid charm.* The pianist’s portion of the program, unfortunately, was sufficiently dull to allow memories of the soprano to return to the ears.

I could not observe if the others were enjoying the concert and I didn’t give their opinion a second thought, having wisely decided to take in the performance from a seat in the very front. Slumped down in my seat, with eyelids nearly closed, I am sure one could have mistaken my position for a deep sleep, but I find it absurd to listen intently while sitting stiffly upright and staring ahead--as undesirable as to read while eating, or recite a poem while fencing. I lifted my gaze long enough to acknowledge Mr. Carvin’s nod of recognition as he stepped before the piano, then shut my lids firmly as his neat, pointed beard settled into the chin rest; his flamboyant style as a performer was distracting and I preferred to avoid it completely. As the piano began its rolling introduction I wondered if an opaque fabric curtain could be devised to block the proscenium of a concert while permitting all of the sound to come through, allowing for a pure, unbiased musical experience for the audience.

His technique left a bit to be desired, with a few flat high tones and a tendency toward noisy attacks of the bow, but his command of phrasing and subtle use of vibrato was admirable. It would be pointless to delve into the subject here, since I have written rather extensively on works of Mendelssohn during the past year, and if one is interested my essays may be located amongst my other monographs. Suffice it to say that his performance was a very welcome experience after the recent weeks of tedium, and moments into the third movement my fingers were twitching with the desire to seize my own instrument and bury myself once again in the music.

At the conclusion, with a happily pulsing chest and a thousand thoughts in my head, I reluctantly pulled myself up from the bench, and turned to the rear to face the grim reality seated several rows beyond. The perfectly poised older lady, her expression cordially pleasant, rose to meet me. But the younger woman was seated and still, staring at nothing with wide eyes and flushed cheeks, her hands nervously clasping.

As I approached her excitement became increasingly apparent, until I stopped at the end of the row, stunned by her transformation. Jane looked up at me, her eyes unblinking and filled with emotion, and I was instantly assailed by a sharp twinge of embarrassment.

"The concerto was...indescribably...exquisite," she gushed, and lowered her eyelids as her face deepened to a ridiculous shade of pink. "It was so very beautiful."

"Yes, quite lovely," offered the lady, hovering expectantly. Jane’s agitation did not dissipate, however, but seemed to expand throughout her body.

"It was as if the most perfect voice in Heaven was singing," she rhapsodised, and shook her hands excitedly in her lap, rustling her skirts. "I’m sorry to be so--so very—but I’ve just never heard anything so moving."

I attempted to alter my shocked expression to one of restrained agreement.

"Well, yes, it is a fine example of the composer’s art. There are many remarkable violin concerti in addition to this one, of course."

"I’ve just--never heard anything--I mean, I’ve never heard one before. This is the first." She sighed deeply, with trembling breath.

"The first violin concerto?" I replied, with some amazement.

"Well, yes." Her head dropped so that she spoke into her chest, and her words were muffled. "This is the first performance I’ve ever heard. The first, em...concert that I’ve ever been to."

She released a tightly-wadded handkerchief from her left hand and smoothed it against her skirt. It was marked with spots of water.

Madame took a quick look at my bewildered face and wisely stepped over, stooping and taking Jane’s arm in a gentle, convincing grip. "I’m so glad you, eh...enjoyed it, my dear. But we should go and look for our carriage before he decides to go and start chatting with his instructor. Then we would never be able to leave." She gave me a pointed look. "Don’t you agree? We’ll freshen up while you go hail the coach. Hmm?"

"Of course," I intoned, and pursed my lips to correct my dropped jaw.

—————

Even considering the negligible attendance the streets outside were infuriatingly packed with travellers, and I had almost given up hope for any movement other than jerky, intermittent motion when we finally broke free of the pack and set off down the open country road, where a stream of fresh air brushed through the open windows and the last blue streaks of midsummer daylight stretched over the trees. As the wind crossed my face I gave a sigh of great relief and reached out for my book, which was barely discernible in the darkening cabin. I squinted through the darkness at the indistinct faces of the two ladies sitting opposite, who resembled wax figures.

"If you don’t mind, I could light the lamp, so that I may read a bit."

Madame gave a start and blinked heavily as though surprised by my voice. "Oh, of course, my dear."

I fished a match out of my tobacco pouch and, after the lamp was lit, took the all-too-brief opportunity to inhale the sweet, slightly burnt aroma before regretfully packing the pouch away again. It was also my misfortune that the lamp suffered from a cracked panel, with a piece of glass long missing, and from the flickering, struggling light it was evident that the increasing gusts of air and the trembling flame were incompatible; a choice would have to be made between the fresh breeze and the words of Goethe on the darkening pages of my book. I reached over to close the window but instead found myself examining the pair of flushed, perspiring faces before me, and, uncharacteristically, felt a warm glow of benevolence as I lifted the shade and allowed the light to extinguish.

"You’re not going to read, dear?" offered Madame, with a weak, panting breath.

"No, I suppose not," I shrugged. "It is too warm for reading this evening."

Even in the darkness I could sense a faint confusion crossing her face as the simple connection between the window and the light failed to penetrate her thoughts, whatever their nature may have been, and which must have been swirling all-consumedly though her muddled head. Jane, however, gratefully tilted her face toward the welcome draught of twilight air.

From years of habit my mind immediately turned to the subjects of my inner library, where I could explore the topics of interest I had been considering of late, and in this case the violin concerto presented a path of no resistance. I prepared to embark on a mental journey, and was about to close my eyes when the outlines of the gloomy countryside passing by the window impressed my mind with a distant image, and filled me with a tangible, physical memory: one which was instantly accompanied by a gently rolling musical motif, a theme which became circular as it played back upon itself. It was a melody I knew well; not the violin concerto, but from a piece which would not be named.

My peering eyes took in the faint lines of the dark, slightly tousled female heads, which shook and shifted with the rhythm of the road. The petite figure on the right, with her drooping eyelids and the sound of her shallow breathing, was in no state to force another conversation on poor Jane, whose eyes took in the moonlight with a narrow, contemplative stare. Every bobbing motion and swinging of stray hair-curls was accompanied by the melodies of dancing strings and sustained, plaintive woodwinds humming in my mind’s ear. The entwined melodic lines played as though caught in a everlasting music box, constantly wound by the turning wheels beneath me, until, to my great relief, a name finally attached itself to the nameless tune. The carriage became a tossing boat, and the looming shadows outside the window took the shape of massive rocks rising from the curling, crashing waves. This playful deceit entranced my mind and ears until I was so saturated with its senses, I felt unwilling to contain my excitement.

"Miss Elton--I must ask you something. Have you ever visited Scotland?"

I peered at her shadowed face, searching for a reaction. Her brows furrowed; her bottom lip lowered only just enough to let the slightest breath exit.

"No, I haven’t," she murmured. Her eyes stayed fixed on the passing trees, with a single blink against the wind.

"There is a most impressive piece of music written for a group of islands off the coast there. The music is named for the cave: Fingal’s Cave."

A deeper wrinkle appeared across her forehead.

"A piece of music about a cave? It sounds rather dark and dreary."

"Not at all. The music takes the shape of the waves tossing the boat, breaking into the mouth of the cave; it is as if the sound creates a picture, a physical representation. It is ‘programme’ music."

Her eyes were half-shut and glazed, and her focus was a mile away. I tapped my fingers together and searched for an idea that would catch her interest.

"It was written by the same composer, the one who wrote the violin concerto we just heard: Mendelssohn."

Her eyes opened perceptibly, even as they stayed fixed on the shadowed trees. The waves of cellos still danced in my head; it seemed so vital, so crucial, that I should not be the only one to hear it--as if this hidden passion remained mine alone, then it was not passion, but madness.

"You’ve heard Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony?" I realised the futility of the question, and continued. "His Pastoral Symphony depicts the fields, the rolling brook, the folk dancing, the thunderstorm--you can picture these things as you listen. This is called ‘programme’ music. It is the same for Mendelssohn’s overture; the Hebrides islands are literally depicted in the music, with rolling figures in the cellos, the cavern echoing in the woodwind octaves, waves crashing in the cymbals. When I first heard the overture it took hold of my imagination so that I could not forget it, and I felt that I must go to the islands and see the cave for myself. It required two days of travel from London, and a difficult boat ride to reach it; but the power of the waves, and the massive darkness of the cave--all the while hearing Mendelssohn’s masterful impressions inside my head, was overwhelming. It was the most visceral experience I have ever had."

I looked at Jane again; now she was gazing directly at me with great interest.

"That is quite remarkable," she said with the gentlest, most delicate of smiles. "The young maestro has emotions, after all."

My mouth gaped; I was unsure whether to be insulted, or to laugh. I simply smiled in turn.

"It is true," I nodded, with wry humility, "my secret is out. I do possess a single emotion, aroused whenever great ideas find their perfect expression: it is awe."

"Ah," she retorted, "that one emotion only?"

"Perhaps one or two more, I am not certain. They come so rarely."

"I see," she said, catching a tiny laugh in her throat.

"My usual state is boredom; occasionally this intensifies into aggravation, but I don’t include this as an emotion as such."

"Really? Why not?

"Do you think it qualifies?"

"I should think so--every feeling is an emotion," Jane declared. "I live every moment of every day in the grip of some emotion or other; I think we all do, whether we know it or not."

Her last statement was wholly sincere, and her soft, lilting voice was as insistent as I had ever heard it. I glanced over at Madame, whose head tilted downward into darkness, her closed eyelids fluttering, fingers gently twitching. I turned my eyes back to Jane, and leaned slightly forward.

"I don’t believe that boredom is a true emotion--it seems to me to be a lack of it, when the mind shuts down from lack of stimulation. But you make an interesting point."

"Why, thank you." Her eyes brightened, and her lips allowed a significant upward curl.

"And how do you feel about your painting? Is it an emotional pursuit, or perhaps just an escape from boredom?"

Jane pursed her lips for a moment while she pondered the question.

"Well, I suppose it is an escape, in a way. I took it up six years ago, after my father passed away."

She paused in order to allow for the requisite consolation, but none was forthcoming. I spoke in a low, even tone:

"I cannot say that I am sorry, for I did not know your father and have no feelings for him, and in any case, my words of condolence would have absolutely no effect on your continued feelings for him. I hold some unconventional beliefs on the subject. Do you mind my honesty?"

Jane did not hesitate.

"Why should I mind honesty? I value it very highly."

I took a careful look at her face. Her eyes would not quite meet mine, but they were open and unblinking, and her mouth was resolute.

"Well," I offered, with the warmest tone I could muster, "I am nothing if not honest and forthright; we have much in common."

I knew it was impossible to discern in the shadows, but her cheeks appeared to turn a deep pink.

"You do make a good point, even if it is an uncomfortably sharp one; I must admit it is a solace to drown my sorrows with colours and brushes and turpentine. You probably feel a similar escape from the world when you play the violin."

"I wouldn’t call it an escape, because it is an area with its own complications and frustrations. But at least it is a world of beauty and logic, which is more than I can say for most of the human race."

"Come now, it won’t do for you to be pessimistic. You must be positive about the world, or you shan’t be able to help people."

"What on Earth do you mean? How will I be helping the world?"

"You plan to become a physician, don’t you? It is most important for doctors to have a positive outlook--"

"No!" I scoffed. "I don’t plan to become a physician; that is only an idea in my father’s head. I am studying the sciences, but I have no plans for a profession as of yet. The decision will be mine, and no one else’s."

"Of course. That’s as it should be." Her tiny voice betrayed a hurt tone.

"I didn’t mean to be brusque; forgive me. It’s just that I possess equal talent in both science and music, and the decision is a difficult one. They have many profound similarities, many parallels. I understand both systems, both languages, and I love them equally; but I must choose one, so that I can contribute my utmost to it. There’s no use practising a skill halfway; one must give one’s talents completely, unselfishly, or they are a pitiable waste." I shook my head, with an amused smile. "My, how I do go on. I must be boring you to distraction."

"Not at all. I am enjoying every word."

Her words were unforced and lilted with a gentle, soothing persuasion, which I could not help but take to heart. I folded my arms and chuckled to myself.

"Enough of this serious talk. Do you want to hear something quite amusing? My bow cost a good deal more than my violin."

She leaned forward. "Oh? The bow cost more?"

"The violin was a modest price; it was made about twenty-five years ago by François Ricard, Paris, and the bow included with it was nothing special. But I found an excellent bow for sale last year in London by J. Dodd, a superb maker, from around 1830, and you would not believe how it played--it made the Ricard sound like a different instrument. I won’t say how much I paid for it; it was almost my entire allowance for the term, and I had to grow fond of eating very little for several months. But, it was worth every penny."

"Your face lights up when you talk about it. It must be a great joy to you."

Some quality in her voice sent a remarkable warmth through my heart, which flowed throughout my body.

"It is quite a joy to talk with you, Miss Elton. I have found very few people in my life to talk with. Talking with you is like a tonic for the soul."

The words escaped like a river overflowing its banks. I felt panicked for a moment, as though I must find a way to gather them up, contain them, return them to their source; as though I must put the rain back into the clouds.

"Oh, my." Her voice deepened and her face softened more than I thought was possible. "I’m so sorry."

I was incredulous. "Sorry?"

"It is so sad that you have few people to talk with. I have always chatted so much with my sisters and my other friends, I suppose I take it for granted. I would go mad without people I can talk to." She peered into my face with great concern. "You have a brother, don’t you? Do you talk with him?"

"I am not very close to my brother because of our age difference: seven years. He has never been unkind, but he lives in his own world; it is his prerogative, and I bear him no grudge. Are you close to your siblings?"

"My sisters and I have always been quite close--well, reasonably so, especially before they were all married. And all three of them were blessed with a child last year! Aside from my dear father, we are all healthy and happy."

I gave her a direct stare of suspicion. "Or, at least, reasonably healthy. Aside from the odd riding accident."

Her artifice dropped away and she smiled, embarrassed but grateful for my candour.

"You are so right. Well, healthy for the most part. It is nothing serious."

"I don’t believe you."

She looked at me with mouth agape, unsure where to turn. "But it is not a--"

"If it is serious to you, then it is. It doesn’t matter what others think of it: if you are injured and you have pain, then that pain is legitimate."

She looked down, and cradled her right hand in her left. "It has hurt me more than anyone could understand. Except, perhaps, you."

For a moment I felt a jolt in my chest, and then the warmth flowed through me again. My voice rasped softly:

"I know that pain, physical or emotional, can be debilitating, but it doesn’t last forever. Everyone has his share of misfortune, and we have had a share of it in my family as well. After my brother there was a second child who died a few years before I was born, of what illness I’m not certain. And when I was about two years of age, I believe, another baby died. After so many years I don’t remember any more about it. I don’t even remember whether it was a boy or girl."

A strange voice spoke: "A girl."

My head jerked around in confusion, and Jane jumped nearly out of her skin. Madame’s lips were parted and her heavy eyelids were half-open.

"It was a girl. She had silky white hair; don’t you remember how you use to brush it with your fingers, so careful to avoid the soft spot? She was nearly two months old. Then, one morning, she didn’t wake up. You never wanted to stay in the nursery after that, I recall; you wanted a room of your own, like your brother. You were always more like a little adult than a child."

My face flushed hot to the tips of my ears--a most unusual feeling. I instinctively clutched at my coat pocket, where the tobacco pouch was tucked away in seclusion; instead, my fingers located my watch, and I peered into its face with difficulty.

"My word, I had no idea how late it is getting. I’m afraid that our rambling has disturbed your rest. We won’t trouble you any longer."

Madame shifted in her seat with a gentle stretch. "Oh no, my dear, you have not disturbed me; on the contrary, I believe I have disturbed you with my intrusion. Pray continue, and I will not interfere."

My ears still burned, and my tongue could not find its next word. Then Jane spoke:

"It is late, and I am getting rather weary myself. I’m certainly not accustomed to so much talking and excitement. I believe I shall have to rest as well, if you’ll excuse me from chatting any more this evening." She raised a brow in my direction, as if to cue my next line.

"Oh--certainly," I agreed. "It’s been an exhausting evening. Perhaps since it is cooler now, I could close the window and light the lamp for reading? I had to leave off in rather an interesting passage. If you don’t mind...?"

Madame looked at Jane, then myself, and nodded; her eyes again closed.

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