drank in the sounds, his
glance constantly roved from Ruth to the performer and back to
Ruth. These amazing infants!

Suddenly he came upon the true solution: that the boy hadn't meant
to steal whatever it was he had stolen. A victim of one of those
mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct
and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. Never
any doubt of it. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a
soul with clean ideals. All in a moment. McClintock's heart went
out to Spurlock; he would always be the boy's friend, even though
he had dragged this girl on to the rocks with him.

Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. He could remember
when women laid away their gowns in lavender--as this girl's mother
had. He would always be her friend, too. That boy--blind as a bat!
Why, he hadn't seen the Woman until to-night!

From the first chord of the Grieg _concerto_ to the _finale_ of the
Chopin _ballade_, Ruth had sat tensely on the edge of her chair.
She had dreaded the beginning of this hour. What would happen to
her? Would her soul be shaken, twisted, hypnotized?--as it had been
those other times? Music--that took out of her the sense of
reality, whirled her into the clouds, that gave to her will the
directless energy of a chip of wood on stormy waters. But before
the Grieg _concerto_ was done, she knew that she was free. Free!
All the fine ecstasy, without the numbing terror.

Spurlock sat limply, his arms hanging. McClintock, striking a match
to relight his cigar, broke the spell. Ruth sighed; Spurlock stood
up and drew his hand across his forehead as if awakening from a
dream.

"I didn't know the machine had such stuff in it," said McClintock.
"I imagine I must have a hundred rolls--all the old fellows. It's a
sorry world," he went on. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints,
nobody writes--I mean, on a par with what we've just heard."

The clock tinkled ten. Shortly Ruth and Spurlock took the way home.
They walked in silence. With a finger crooked in his side-pocket,
she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the
echo of the magic sounds. At the threshold of the study he bade her
good-night; but he did not touch her forehead with his lips.

"I feel like work," he lied. What he wanted desperately was to be
alone.

"But you are tired!"

"I want to go over the story again."

"Mr. McClintock liked it."

"He couldn't help it, Ruth. It's