Miriam went on to the drawing-room. The Marquess was sitting in his
usual deep chair, his hands folded on his knees, his head bowed; he
looked as if he were asleep, but he was not; he was thinking, at that
moment, of the half-tipsy son he had left in the dining-room, of the
thin, bent figure of the old man who had suddenly reappeared on that
morning months ago at Sutcombe House. What a terrible tangle it was;
what a mockery that he should be sitting here at Thexford Hall, while
the real owner was living in poverty in London! His thoughts were almost
too bitter to be borne, and the so-called Marquess crouched in his chair
and stifled a groan.

Thinking he was dozing, Miriam went straight to the piano and began to
play. When she had finished the piece, she was startled--for she had
been going over and over in her mind the scene in the smoking-room--by
the grave voice of the Marquess saying, "Thank you, Miriam. That was very beautiful." He paused a moment. "My
wife used to play that; it is a favourite of mine. Please go on, if you
are not tired."

She played a nocturne of Chopin; and he rose and stood at the fireplace,
with his hands folded behind his back. As she turned and looked at him,
he said, with a smile, "That is a pretty pendant, Miriam. I think you have not many jewels,
have you?"