cular private
secretary she would consider herself safe. The social difference was
as much her protection as some preposterous incompatibility of age.
And as if that were not enough, in their thoughts they were so akin
that she might feel herself guarded from him by some law of spiritual
consanguinity.

"Oh, my life--" he said with a queer short laugh that sounded like a
sob,--"well, I must be getting back to my work."

"You are _not_ going to work again to-night?"

"I must." Yet he did not get up to go. He seemed to be waiting to say
something. "I--I haven't thanked you. I don't know how to."

"Don't try. I've done nothing. There is little that one person can do
for another."

"There's something that you might do for me--some day--if I might
ask--if you would."

"What is that?"

She followed his gaze as it travelled into the depth of the room
beyond the circle of the lamp-light, where the grand piano stood. Its
keyboard shone in an even band of white, its massive body merged in
the gleaming darkness.

"If you would play to me--some day."

"I will play to you with pleasure." Her voice sounded as if she were
breathing more freely; perhaps she had wondered what on earth he was
going to say. "Now, if you like."

Why not? If she had enjoyed his music, had he not a right to enjoy
hers? Why should she not give him that little pleasure, he who had so
few?

"What shall I play?"

"I should like to hear that thing you were playing the other night."

"Let me think. Oh, the Sonata Appassionata."

"Yes, if it isn't too late." The moment he had said it he reflected
that that was a scruple that might have been better left to the lady.

He watched her grey-white figure departing into the dusk of the room.
He longed to follow, but some fear restrained him. He remained where
he was, leaning back in the deep chair under the lamp while she sat
down there in the dusk, playing to him the Sonata Appassionata.

The space around the lamp grew dim to him; she had gathered into
herself all the whiteness of the flame; the music was a part of her
radiance, it was the singing of her pulses, the rhythm of her breath.

When she had stopped playing he rose and held out his hand to say
good-night.

"Thank you. I don't think so badly of my life now. You've given me one
perfect moment."

"Are you so fond of music?"

She was about to ring when he prevented her.

"Please don't ring. I can find my way. I'd rather."

She judged