not in the least an object of absorbing interest to her. It
cried out of tune and made ear-piercing noises that were not included
in even the most modern of compositions. Moreover, she was not by
nature of the maternal type of woman, to whom marriage is but the
beautiful path which leads to motherhood. She was essentially one of
the lovers of the world. Had she married her mate, she would have
demanded nothing more of life, though, if a child had been born of such
mating, it would have seemed to her so beautiful and sure a link, so
blent with love itself, that her arms would have opened to receive it.

But of all these intricacies of the feminine heart and mind Roger was
sublimely ignorant. So he chided her, still with that same unwonted
gentleness which the thought of fatherhood sometimes brings to men of
strong and violent temper.

"That's all nonsense, you know, sweetheart. And some day . . . when
there's a small son to be thought about and planned for and loved,
you'll find that what I say is true."

"It might chance to be a small daughter," suggested Nan snubbily, and
Roger's face fell a little. "So, meanwhile, as I haven't a baby and I
_have_ a concerto, come along and listen to it."

He nodded and followed her into the West Parlour. A cheerful fire was
blazing on the hearth, a big lounge chair drawn up invitingly beside
it, while close at hand stood a small table with pipe, tobacco pouch,
and matches lying on it in readiness.

Roger smiled at the careful arrangement.

"What a thoughtful child it's becoming!" he commented, taking up his
pipe.

"Well, you can listen to music much better if you're really comfy,"
said Nan. "Sit down and light your pipe--there, I'll light it for you
when you've finished squashing the 'baccy down into it."

Roger dropped leisurely into the big chair, filled and lit his pipe,
and when it was drawing well, stretched out his legs to the logs' warm
glow with a sigh of contentment.

"Now, fire away, sweetheart," he said. "I'm all attention."

She looked across at him, feeling for the first time a little anxious
and uncertain of the success of her plan.

"Of course, it'll sound very bald--just played on the piano," she
explained carefully. "You'll have to try and imagine the difference
the orchestral part makes."

Switching off the lights, so that nothing but the flickering glow of
the fire illumined the room, she began to play.

For half an hour she played on, lo