r me alone. And a lifetime, I
repeat it, a lifetime, is not long enough to master such an instrument
as this!"

He brought his hand down heavily on the lid of the piano, and glared at
Maurice as if he expected the latter to contradict him. Then, noisily
clearing his throat, he began anew to pace the room.

As Maurice stood waiting for his dismissal, with very varied feelings,
of which, however, a faint pride was uppermost; as he stood waiting,
the door opened, and a girl looked in. She hesitated a moment, then
entered, and going up to Schwarz, asked him something in a low voice.
He nodded an assent, nodded two or three times, and with quite another
face; its hitherto unmoved severity had given way to an indulgent
friendliness. She laid her hat and jacket on the table, and went to the
piano.

Schwarz motioned Maurice to a chair. He sat down almost opposite her.

And now came for him one of those moments in life, which, unlooked-for,
undivined, send before them no promise of being different, in any way,
from the commonplace moments that make up the balance of our days. No
gently graduated steps lead up to them: they are upon us with the
violent abruptness of a streak of lightning, and like this, they, too,
may leave behind them a scarry trace. What such a moment holds within
it, is something which has never existed for us before, something it
has never entered our minds to go out and seek--the corner of earth,
happened on by chance, which comes most near the Wineland of our
dreams; the page, idly perhaps begun, which brings us a new god; the
face of the woman who is to be our fate--but, whatever it may be, let
it once exist for us, and the soul responds forthwith, catching in
blind haste at the dimly missed ideal.

For one instant Maurice Guest had looked at the girl before him with
unconcern, but the next it was with an intentness that soon became
intensity, and feverishly grew, until he could not tear his eyes away.
The beauty, whose spell thus bound him, was of that subtle kind which
leaves many a one cold, but, as if just for this reason, is almost
always fateful for those who feel its charm: at them is lanced its
accumulated force. The face was far from faultless; there was no
regularity of feature, no perfection of line, nor was there more than a
touch of the sweet girlish freshness that gladdens like a morning in
May. The features, save for a peremptory turn of mouth and chin, were
unremarkable, and the expre