passed
out of her eyes. She got up quietly and left the room. Ascher held the
door open for her and motioned me to follow her. He took my arm as we
passed together down a long corridor.

"Mr. Wendall," he said, "is a young musician who comes to play to us
every week. He is a man with a future before him. I think you will enjoy
his playing. We are going to the music room."

We went through a small sitting-room, more fully furnished than any
other in Ascher's house. It looked as if it were meant to be inhabited
by ordinary human beings. It was reserved, so I learned afterwards, for
the use of Ascher's guests. We ascended a short flight of stairs and
entered the music room. Unlike the dining-room it was only partially
lit. A single lamp stood on a little table near the fireplace, and there
were two candles on a grand piano in the middle of the room. These made
small spots of light in a space of gloom. I felt rather than saw
that the room was a large one. I discerned the shapes of four tall,
curtainless windows. I saw that except the piano and a few seats near
the fireplace there was no furniture. As we entered I heard the sound of
an organ, played very softly, somewhere above me.

"Mr. Wendall is here," said Ascher.

He led me over to the fireplace and put me in a deep soft chair. He laid
a box of cigarettes beside me and set a vase of spills at my right hand.
I gathered that I might smoke, so long as I lit my tobacco noiselessly,
with spills kindled in the fire; but that I must not make scratchy
sounds by striking matches. Mrs. Ascher sank down in a corner of a large
sofa. She lay there with parted lips and half-closed eyes, like some
feline creature expectant of sensuous delight. The light from the
lamp behind her and the flickering fire played a strange game of
shadow-making and shadow-chasing among the folds of her scarlet gown.
Ascher sat down beside her.

The organ was played very softly. I found out that it was placed in a
gallery above the door by which we had entered. I saw the pipes, like
a clump of tall spears, barely discernible in the gloom. There was no
light in the gallery. Mr. Wendall was no doubt there and was able to
play without seeing a printed score. I supposed that he was playing the
music of the new Russian composer. Whatever he played he failed to catch
my attention, though the sounds were vaguely soothing. I found myself
thinking that Mrs. Ascher had no right to be furiously angry with the
p