d upon. She stopped in the middle of a
phrase from a Mendelssohn song, and even to his prejudiced ears her
touch had seemed commonplace. Yet he loved her all the more despite her
flat refusal to play. The temptation to his excited artistic temperament
was removed. He played, often, gloriously. His nerves were steel. This
was a cure his doctor had not foreseen. What did it matter, anyhow?--he
was near Constantia daily, and the sunshine was royal. Only--why did her
relatives absent themselves so obstinately! She told him, with her
secret smile, that she had scolded them for talking so much; but when he
played they were never far away, she assured him. Nor was the Japanese
woman, Cilli--what a name! A nickname given by Constantia in her
babyhood. Cilli was a good soul. He hoped so--her goodness was not
apparent. She had a sneering expression as he played. He never looked up
from the keyboard that he did not encounter her ironical gaze. She was
undoubtedly interested. Her intensity of pose proved it; but there was
no sympathy in her eyes. And she had a habit of suddenly appearing in
door or window, and always behind her mistress. She ended by seriously
annoying him, though he did not complain. It was too trivial.

One afternoon he unfolded his novel views on touch. If the action of the
modern pianoforte could be made as sensitive in its response as the
fingerboard of a fiddle.... Constantia listened with her habitual
gravity, but he knew that she was bored. Then he shifted to the subject
of fingers. He begged to be allowed the privilege of examining hers. At
first she held back, burying her hand in the old Mechlin lace flounce of
her sleeves. He coaxed. He did not attempt to conceal his chagrin when
he finally saw her fingers. They were pudgy, good-humoured, fit to lift
a knife and fork, or to mend linen. They did not match her cameo-like
face, and above all they did not reveal the musical soul he knew her to
possess. For the first time since he met her she gave evidence of ill
humour. She sharply withdrew her hand from his, and as she did so a
barbaric croon was heard, a sort of triumphant wailing, and Constantia,
without making an excuse, hurriedly left the room. The singing stopped.

"It's that devil of a Japanese woman," he muttered testily. He waited
for nearly an hour, and in a vile temper took up his hat and stick and
went away. Decidedly this was his unlucky day, he grumbled, as he
reached the water. He saw Grabowsk