eal of the finest romantic
poetry, and you have been silent, especially with men. You have seen
little of men.'

'But I understand them,' I answered boldly.

'I believe you do,' he admitted; and he laughed. 'So I needn't explain to
you that a thousand women dying of love for one man will not help that
man to happiness, unless he is dying of love for the thousand and first.'

'And have you never loved?'

The words came of themselves out of my mouth.

'I have deceived myself--in my quest of sympathy,' he said.

'Can you be sure that, in your quest of sympathy, you are not deceiving
yourself tonight?'

'Yes,' he cried quickly, 'I can.' And he sprang up and almost ran to the
piano. 'You remember the D flat Prelude?' he said, breaking into the
latter part of the air, and looking at me the while. 'When I came to that
note and caught your gaze'--he struck the B flat and held it--'I knew
that I had found sympathy. I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! Do you
remember?'

'Remember what?'

'The way we looked at each other.'

'Yes,' I breathed, 'I remember.'

'How can I thank you? How can I thank you?'

He seemed to be meditating. His simplicity, his humility, his kindliness
were more than I could bear.

'Please do not speak like that,' I entreated him, pained. 'You are the
greatest artist in the world, and I am nobody--nobody at all. I do not
know why I am here. I cannot imagine what you have seen in me. Everything
is a mystery. All I feel is that I am in your presence, and that I am not
worthy to be. No matter how long I live, I shall never experience again
the joy that I have now. But if you talk about thanking me, I must run
away, because I cannot stand it--and--and--you haven't played for me, and
you said you would.'

He approached me, and bent his head towards mine, and I glanced up
through a mist and saw his eyes and the short, curly auburn locks on
his forehead.

'The most beautiful things, and the most vital things, and the most
lasting things,' he said softly, 'are often mysterious and inexplicable
and sudden. And let me tell you that you do not know how lovely you are.
You do not know the magic of your voice, nor the grace of your gestures.
But time and man will teach you. What shall I play?'

He was very close to me.

'Bach,' I ejaculated, pointing impatiently to the piano.

I fancied that Bach would spread peace abroad in my soul.

He resumed his place at the piano, and touched the keys.

'Anothe