him, proud of every bizarrerie in him of which others might be ashamed. After dinner he led her into the lobby and said: “I want you to come up into my room for a little while. I have engaged a room with a piano in it.” Thrilled and excited, she went with him. The room was heavily and tastelessly furnished, the piano upright and metallic. He did not seem particularly conversational. After a silence he said: “Oh, what was that little piece you played as an encore this afternoon?” “One of Beethoven’s Minuets.” “Oh?--I don’t remember ever having heard it. Play it now, will you?” His courtliness had vanished, for he let her carry a chair to the piano unassisted. Towards the conclusion of the piece he rose and stood at her elbow, leaning on the top of the piano. She could see him frowning. When she had finished, she was expecting some ruthless technical criticism of her playing. But he stood for a long while in silence. Then he said gruffly: “Damned sentimental. I thought as much.” “What do you mean?” she asked quietly. He paused and commenced to walk about the room with his hands in his pockets. “Look here,” he began irritably, “when I heard that piece this afternoon I liked it very much. Then I asked myself why I liked it, and found it difficult to say. A sensible man should, of course, be prepared to give reasons for his likes and dislikes. ‘Is it possible,’ I asked myself, ‘that you like the thing because it is sentimental?’ I shuffled basely by telling myself: ‘I don’t know: I don’t even remember if the thing _was_ sentimental.’ ... Well, now I’ve heard it a second time and I know for certain. It is sentimental--damned oozy, slimy, slithery sentiment from beginning to end. And the question is: What the devil’s the matter with me that I should have liked it this afternoon?” She turned round to face him and laughed. “How should I know?” she replied. “Perhaps _you’re_ getting sentimental.” “Heaven preserve me from such a fate,” he muttered gruffly. “Play me a Bach’s fugue to take that beastly sugary taste away.” She did so, but if ever an attempt was made to infuse sentiment into a Bach’s fugue, it was on that occasion. All the while her soul was revelling in a strange airiness. “Bach would turn in his grave if he could hear,” was his sole comment when she had finished. “Get up and I’ll show you how to do it.” Once again the relationship of master and pupil had ousted every other.