i and Pelletier, arm in arm, trudging
toward the villa, but contrived to evade them. In ten minutes he found
himself spying on the house he had quitted. He skirted a little private
way back of the villa, and to his amazement father, uncle, and
Constantia came out and hailed the omnibus which travelled hourly to
Aussee. Davos was furious. He did not risk following them, for he
realized he had been treated shabbily. His wrath softened as he
reflected; perhaps Constantia, agitated by his rudeness,--had he been
rude?--persuaded her family to follow him to Ischl. The sky cleared.
That was the solution--Marco Davos straightened himself--his pride was
no longer up in arms. Poor child--she was so easily wounded! How he
loved her!

His body trembled. He could not believe he was awake. Incredible music
was issuing from behind the closed blinds of the villa. Music! And the
music he had overheard that first night. But Constantia had just gone
away; he had seen her. There must be some mistake, some joke. No, no, by
another path she had managed to get back to the house. Ay! but what
playing. Again came that purling rush of notes, those unison passages,
as if one gigantic hand grasped them--so perfect was the tonal accord.
He did not hesitate. At a bound he was in the corridor and pushed open
the door of the drawing-room....

At first the twilighted room blinded him. Then to his disgust and terror
he saw the apelike features of the squat Japanese governess. She sat at
the piano, her bilious skin flushed by the exertion of playing.

"You--you!" he barely managed to stammer. She did not reply, but
preserved the immobility of a carved idol.

"You are a wonderful artiste," he blurted, going to her. She stolidly
answered:--

"The Japanese have the finest sense of touch in the world. I was once a
pupil of Karl Tausig." Involuntarily he bowed his head to the revered
name of the one man he had longed to hear. Then his feelings almost
strangled him; his master passion asserted itself.

"Your fingers, your fingers--let me see them," he hoarsely demanded.
With a malicious grin she extended her hands--he groaned enviously. Yes,
they were miracles of sculpture, miracles of colour and delicacy, the
slender tips well-nigh prehensile in their cunning power. And the
fingers of Constantia, of his love, of the woman who loved Chopin--that
Chopin whose first passion was for her grandmother, the opera singer
Constantia Gladowska!

The knowledge o