He pushed back his chair slowly. In the living room he took the Amati
from its case and began improvising. What the chrysoprase did for Cutty
the fiddle did for this derelict--solved problems.

He reviewed all the phases as he played. That dish of bacon and eggs,
the resolute air of her, that popping fan! [Allegretto.] She had found
him senseless on the floor. She had had the courage to come to his
assistance. [Andante con espressione.] What had been in her mind that
night she had taken flight from his bedroom, after having given him the
wallet? Something like tears. What about? An American girl, natural,
humorous, and fanciful. Somehow he felt assured that it had not been his
kisses; she had looked into his eyes and seen the taint. Always there,
the beast that old Stefani had chained and subdued. He knew now that
this beast would never again lift its head. And he had let her go
without a sign. [Dolorosomente.] To have gone through life with a woman
who would have understood his nature. The test of her had been last
night in the streets. His mood had been hers. [Allegretto con amore.]

"Love," he said, lowering the bow.

"Love," said Cutty, shifting his chrysoprase. There was no fool like an
old fool. It did not serve to recall Molly in all her glory, to reach
hither and yon for a handhold to pull him out of this morass. Molly had
become an invisible ghost. He loved her daughter. Double sunset; the
phenomenon of the Indian Ocean was now being enacted upon his own
horizon. Double sunset.

But why should Kitty have any problem to solve? Why should she dodder
over such a trifle as this prospective official marriage? It was only
a joke which would legalize his generosity. She had sent that telegram
after leaving this apartment. What had happened here to decide her? Had
Hawksley fiddled? There was something the matter with the green stones
to-night; they evoked nothing.

He leaned back in his chair, listening, the bowl of his pipe touching
the lapel of his coat. Music. Queer, what you could do with a fiddle if
you knew how.

After all there was no sense in venting his anger on Hawksley. He was
hoist by his own petard. Why not admit the truth? He had had a crack
on the head the same night as Hawksley; only, he had been struck by an
idea, often more deadly than the butt of a pistol. He would apologize
for that roaring exit from the dining room. The poor friendless devil!
He bent toward the green stones again. In the liv