Desmond swung round upon the music-stool, and at sight of her sprang up hastily, a dull flush showing through his tan. "Amar Singh told me you were out," he said, as they shook hands. "So I was. I only came in this minute. Won't you let me hear a little more, please?" He shook his head with good-humoured decision. "I never play to any one ... except Rob, who, being a Scots Covenanter, disapproves on principle." "I call that selfish. It's such a rare treat to hear a man play well. I was delighted when you began. I thought pianos were unheard of up here." "Well, ... they are hardly a legitimate item in a Frontier officer's equipment! This one was ... my mother's," he laid a hand on the instrument, as though it had been the shoulder of a friend. "The fellows sat upon me, I assure you, when I brought it out. Told me it was worse than a wife. But I've carried my point, ... wife and all. And now, perhaps you will reward me,--if I haven't been too ungracious to deserve it?" He whisked away his solitary photo, and opened the piano. "How do you know I play?" she asked, smiling. She liked his impetuosity of movement and speech. "I don't know. I guessed it last night. You carry it in your head?" "Yes; most of it." "Real music? The big chaps?" "Very little else, I'm afraid." "No need to put it that way here, Miss Meredith. A sonata, please. The Pathetic." She sat down to the piano with a little quickening of the breath and let her fingers rest a moment on the keyboard. Then--sudden, crisp, and vigorous came the crash of the opening chord. Honor Meredith's playing was of a piece with her own nature--vivid, wholesome, impassioned. Her supple fingers drew the heart out of each wire. Yet she did not find it necessary to sway her body to and fro; but sat square and upright, her head a little lifted, as though evolving the music from her soul. Desmond listened motionless to the opening bars; then, with a long breath of satisfaction, moved away, and fell to pacing the room. The Scots Covenanter, scenting the joyful possibility of escape, trotted hopefully to heel: but, being a dog of discernment, speedily detected the fraud, and retired to the hearth-rug in disgust. Thence he scrutinised his master's irrational method of taking exercise, unfeigned contempt in every line of him, from nose-tip to tail. The sonata ended, Honor let her hands fall into her lap, and sat very still. She had lost all thought of her companion in the joy of interpretation; but Desmond's voice at her side recalled her to reality. "Thank you," he said. "I haven't heard it played like _that_ ... for five years. If you can do much of this sort of thing you'll find me insatiable. We're bound to be good friends at this rate, and I see no reason why we should not comply with Ladybird's request to us. Do you, ... Honor?"