Her manner was so open, so sincere, that the suspicion I had been tempted to entertain against her vanished in a trice. It was all imagination, I told myself. Under the influence of her music I must have fallen asleep and dreamt it all. Had I not good proof of this? Had it really happened, it would have taken nearly a quarter of an hour for me to impart the information she had asked of me. Yet the long hand of the clock upon the mantel-piece had only advanced three minutes since I had last looked at it. How comforting this assurance was to me I must leave you to understand. It was the most singularly vivid dream, however, I had had in my life, and, but for the evidence of the clock, and the sincerity of the Countess's manner, I could have sworn that the incident I have just described had really occurred. Yet there was another side to the question. I had fallen asleep while paying an afternoon call, and the idea disquieted me more than I cared to admit. Then a servant entered with tea, and under the influence of the Countess's Pekoe and fashionable chit-chat my powers of conversation returned to me. At last I rose to take leave. "I fear I have paid you an unconscionably long visit," I said. "Your beautiful music, however, must be blamed for my over-stepping the bounds of politeness. I hope you will forgive me?" "It has been a pleasure to me to play to you," she answered. "One does not always have such a sympathetic audience." With that I left her, and on reaching the street turned in the direction of the Park.