"A vagabond has only one mistress, Nature," said Beresford quietly.
"Then I'm not a vagabond," she said.
"The wood and the glade have only one music for the vagabond, the pipes of Pan," he continued. "You would introduce the guitar."
"I should do nothing of the sort," she cried indignantly. "As a matter of fact I used to play the concertina."
"The what?"
"The concertina," she repeated demurely with downcast eyes.
Beresford stared at her in astonishment, not quite sure whether or no she were serious.
"You see," she said, "I couldn't play anything else, and sometimes I wanted to remind myself of—of" she broke off.
"You could have sung?" he suggested.
"Of course I could," she said quietly, "but you've never heard me sing, and now I must be going to bed," she said. "Perhaps" she hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Perhaps I shall see you at breakfast."
"Thanks so much," he said eagerly. "I shall be up early," and in his mind he had come to the determination that his way should be her way if she would permit it.
"Good night," she said as she rose, and with a friendly smile walked towards the door.
"Good night, au revoir," he said meaningly, as
