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.