eople of Belfast for making their churches comfortable. This was her
form of worship, and never were any devotees more luxuriously placed
than we were. If her soul can soar to spiritual heights from the depths
of silken cushions, surely a linen-draper may find it possible to pray
in a cushioned pew.

I was mistaken about the music I was listening to. Mr. Wendall was only
soothing his nerves with organ sounds while he waited for us. When he
discovered our presence he left the gallery and descended to the room
in which we sat, by a narrow stairway. No greeting of any kind passed
between him and the Aschers. He went straight to the piano without
giving any sign that he knew of our presence. I lit a cigarette and
prepared to endure what was in store for me.

At first the new Russian music struck me as merely noisy. I found
no sense or rhythm in it. Then I began to feel slightly excited. The
excitement grew on me in a curious way. I looked at the Aschers. He was
sitting nearly bolt upright, very rigid, in a corner on the sofa. She
lay back, as she had lain before, with her hands on her lap. The only
change that I noted in her attitude was that her fists were clenched
tightly. Mr. Wendall stopped playing abruptly. There was a short
interval of silence, through which I seemed to feel the last chord that
was struck vibrating in my spine.

Then he began to play again. Once more the feeling of excitement came on
me. I am far from being a Puritan, but I suppose I have inherited
from generations of sternly Protestant ancestors some kind of moral
prejudice. I felt, as the excitement grew intenser, that I had
discovered a new, supremely delightful kind of sin. There came to my
memory the names of ancient gods and goddesses denounced by the prophets
of Israel: Peor and Baalim, Milcom, Moloch, Ashtaroth. I knew why the
people loved to worship them. I remembered that Milton had rejoiced in
the names of these half-forgotten deities, and that Milton loved music.
No doubt he, too, understood this way of sinning and, very rightly, he
placed the gods of it in hell. Wendall, at the piano, stopped and began
again. He did this many times. His music was loud sometimes,
sometimes soft, but it did not fail to create the sense of passionate
deliciousness and, for a time, a longing for more of it.

After a while my senses grew numb, sated I suppose. I looked over at the
Aschers. She still lay as she had lain at first, but her fists were no
longe