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N the morning, after coffee and brandy, Ellen rose at dawn to ride in the Bois. She went purposely without Schneidermann, leaving him to a vain pursuit, in order that she might be alone; and when she returned she found that Lily was already awake and had come down from her room to breakfast on the terrace. The May sunlight poured into the garden and beat against the stone of the façade, enveloping her with its reflected warmth, as she sat at the iron table before a bowl of hot chocolate, a dish of rolls and two piles of letters. One heap had been opened and the contents lay scattered over the table and on the flagging beneath. As Ellen, tall and slim in her riding habit and hard hat, stepped through the tall window Lily put down a letter and said, "I brought your mail out here. It isn't interesting this morning . . . mostly bills."

Ellen throwing down her crop and hat, ran her fingers through her dark hair and seated herself on the opposite side of the table, while Lily sent for more chocolate and hot rolls.

"You look tired," observed Lily. "Were you out late?"

"No. Rebecca couldn't go with me, and I was tired so I didn't go at all. But I slept badly."

Lily turned the page of the note she was reading. "You work too hard," she said. "Try taking a rest. Come down to the country with me in June."

"No, I can't do that. . . . I'm going to play in London. Rebecca and Schneidermann have arranged it. It will be my début."

She announced the news abruptly, without any show of emotion.

Lily put down the letter and leaned toward her. "You didn't tell me it would be so soon."

"I only knew it for certain last night. I'm superstitious about speaking of things until they're certain. I'm to play in Wigmore Street on the third."

Her cousin was all interest now. She drew her chair a little nearer and carelessly pushed her letters off the edge of the table.