And taking his helpless hand out of the sling in which it had been resting, he struck it bitterly against the arm of his chair. The tears came to Connie’s eyes. “Don’t!—you’ll hurt yourself. It’ll be all right—it’ll be all right! You’ll hear it in your mind.” And bending forward under a sudden impulse, she took the maimed hand in her two hands—so small and soft—and lifting it tenderly she put her lips to it. He looked at her in amazement. “You do that—for me?” “Yes. Because you are a great artist—and a brave man!” she said, gulping. “You are not to despair. Your music is in your soul—your brain. Other people shall play it for you.” He calmed down. “At least I am not deaf, like Beethoven,” he said, trying to please her. “That would have been worse. Do you know, last night Falloden and I had a glorious talk? He was awfully decent. He made me tell him all about Poland and my people. He never scoffed once. He makes me do what the doctor says. And last night—when it was freezing cold—he brought a rug and wrapped it round me. Think of that!”—he looked at her—half-shamefaced, half-laughing—“_Falloden!_” Her eyes shone. “I’m glad!” she said softly. “I’m glad!” “Yes, but do you know why he’s kind—why he’s here at all?” he asked her abruptly. “What’s the good of silly questions?” she said hastily. “Take it as it comes.” He laughed. “He does it—I’m going to say it!—yes, I am—and you are not to be angry—he does it because—simply—he’s in love with you!” Connie flushed again, more deeply, and he, already alarmed by his own boldness, looked at her nervously. “You are quite wrong.” Her tone was quiet, but decided. “He did it, first of all, because of what you did for his father—” “I did nothing!” interposed Radowitz. She took no notice. “And secondly”—her voice shook a little—“because—he was sorry. Now—now—he is doing it”—suddenly her smile flashed out, with its touch of humour—“just simply because he likes it!” It was a bold assertion. She knew it. But she straightened her slight shoulders, prepared to stick to it. Radowitz shook his head. “And what am I doing it for? Do you remember when I said to you I loathed him?” “No—not him.” “Well, something in him—the chief thing, it seemed to me then. I felt towards him really—as a man might feel towards his murderer—or the murderer of some one else, some innocent, helpless person who had given no offence. Hatred—loathing—abhorrence!—you couldn’t put it too strongly. Well then,”—he began poking at the fire, while he went on thinking aloud—“God brought us together in that strange manner. By the way”—he turned to her—“are you a Christian?” “I—I don’t know. I suppose I am.”