belong. I'll be in the living
room."

When he returned he found her before a window, staring at the myriad
lights.

"Sit here," he said, indicating the divan. "I shall stand and walk about
as I play."

Kitty sat down, touching the pillows, reflectively. She thought of
the tears she had wept upon them. That sinister and cynical thought!
Suddenly she saw light. Her problem would have been none at all if Cutty
had said he loved her. There would have been something sublime in making
him happy in his twilight. He had loved and lost her mother. To pay
him for that! He was right. Those twenty-odd years--his seniority--had
mellowed him, filled him with deep and tender understanding. To be with
him was restful; the very thought of him now was resting. No matter how
much she might love a younger man he would frequently torture her by
unconscious egoism; and by the time he had mellowed, the mulled wine
would be cold. If only Cutty had said he loved her!

"What shall I play?"

Kitty raised her eyes in frank astonishment. There was a fiercely proud
expression on Hawksley's face. It was not the man, it was the artist who
was angry.

"Forgive me! I was dreaming a little," she apologized with quick
understanding. "I am not quite--myself."

"Neither am I. I will play something to fit your dream. But wait! When
I play I am articulate. I can express myself--all emotions. I am what
I play--happy, sad, gay, full of the devil. I warn you. I can speak all
things. I can laugh at you, weep with you, despise you, love you! All
in the touch of these strings. I warn you there is magic in this Amati.
Will you risk it?"

Ordinarily--had this florid outburst come from another man--Kitty would
have laughed. It had the air of piqued vanity; but she knew that this
was not the interpretation. On the streets he had been the most amusing
and surprising comrade she had ever known, as merry and whimsical as
Cutty--young and handsome--the real man. He had been real that night
when he entered through her kitchen window, with the drums of jeopardy
about his neck. He had been real that night she had brought him his
wallet.

Electric antagonism--the room seemed charged with it. The man had
stepped aside for a moment and the great noble had taken his place. It
was not because she had been reared in rather a theatrical atmosphere
that she transcribed his attitude thus. She knew that he was noble.
That she did not know his rank was of no consequence. Cu