“You have a hygiene like a young misses’ school, haven’t you?” said Ned, while Harold, fascinated by the rather gloomy beauty of Miss Anstruther, watched closely and encouraged her talk. She had a square jaw; her cheek-bones were prominent. She was not pretty. The charm of her face--it was more compelling than charming--lay in her eyes and mouth. Brown, with a hazel nuance, the eyes emitted a light like a cat’s in the dark. Her mouth was a contradiction of the jaw. The lips were full and indicated a rich, generous nature, but the mask was one of a Madonna--a Madonna who had forsaken heaven for earth. Harold found her extremely interesting. “Of course, you are musical?” he asked. “Yes; I studied at Stuttgart, and have regretted it all my life. I can never get rid of the technical stiffness.” “Play for me,” he begged. But playing was not to the girl’s disposition. Sultry was the night, and a few faint flashes of heat-lightning near the horizon told of a storm to come. Anne Pickett was laughing very loudly at her companion’s remarks and did not appear to notice the pair. Several times, at the other end of the long drawing-room, eyes peeped in, and once the black page put his head in the door and coughed discreetly. It seemed a dull hour at Madame Recamier’s. Suddenly Harold placed his hand on Miss Anstruther’s and said: “Come to the piano,” and, as one hypnotized, she went with him. He lifted the fall-board, put back the lid, glanced carelessly at the maker’s name, and fixed the seat for the young woman. Anne Pickett was watching him from the other side of the room. “Who’s your friend? He acts like a piano man. There were three here last night.” “H’sh!” said Ned, as the pianist struck a firm chord in C-sharp minor and then raced through the Fantaisie-Impromptu. The man beside her listened and watched rather cynically as her strong fingers unlaced the involved figures of the music. That he knew the work was evident. When she had finished he congratulated her on her touch, observing: “What a pity you don’t cultivate your rhythms!” She started. “You are a musician, then?” Before he could answer, the page came in and whispered in her ear: “Madame Recamier wants to know if the gentlemen will have some wine.” Miss Anstruther blushed, got up from the piano and walked toward the window. Harold followed her, and Miss Pickett called out: “Ned, we can have some champagne; old Mumsey says so.” When Harold reached the girl she was leaning out of the window regarding the western sky. Darkness was swallowing up the summer stars: he put his hand on her shoulder, for she was weeping silently, hopelessly. “How can you stand it?” he murmured, and the ring in his voice caused the girl to turn about and face him, her eyes blurred but full of resentment. “Don’t pity me--don’t pity me; whatever you feel, don’t pity me,” she said in a low, choked voice.