He took her seat at the piano, and began to play—first in a dreamy and quiet way, passing from one plaintive folk-song to another; then gradually rising into passion, defiance, tragedy. Constance stood listening to him in amazement—entranced. Music was a natural language to her as it was to Radowitz, though her gift was so small and slight compared to his. But she understood and followed him; and there sprang up in her, as she sat turning her delicate face to the musician, that sudden, impassioned delight, that sense of fellowship with things vast and incommunicable—“exultations, agonies, and love, and man’s unconquerable mind”—which it is the glorious function of music to kindle in the human spirit. [Illustration: Lady Connie had stood entranced by the playing of Radowitz] The twilight darkened. Every sound in the room but Radowitz’s playing had ceased; even Mrs. Hooper had put down her newspaper. Nora, on the further side of the room, was absorbed in watching the two beautiful figures under the lamplight, the golden-haired musician and the listening girl. Suddenly there was a noise of voices in the hall outside. The drawing-room door was thrown open, and the parlourmaid announced: “Mr. Falloden.” Mrs. Hooper rose hastily. Radowitz wavered in a march finale he was improvising, and looked round. “Oh, go on!” cried Constance. But Radowitz ceased playing. He got up, with an angry shake of his wave of hair, muttered something about “another couple of hours’ work” and closed the piano. Constance remained sitting, as though unaware of the new arrival in the room. “That was wonderful!” she said, with a long breath, her eyes raised to Radowitz. “Now I shall go and read Polish history!” A resonant voice said: “Hullo—Radowitz! Good-evening, Lady Connie. Isn’t this a scandalous time to call? But I came about the ball-tickets for next Wednesday—to ask how many your aunt wants. There seems to be an unholy rush on them.” Connie put out a careless hand. “How do you do? We’ve been having the most divine music! Next Wednesday? Oh, yes, I remember!” And as she recovered her hand from Falloden, she drew it across her eyes, as though trying to dispel the dream in which Radowitz’s playing had wrapped her. Then the hand dropped, and she saw the drawing-room door closing on the player. Falloden looked down upon her with a sarcastic mouth, which, however, worked nervously. “I’m extremely sorry to bring you down to earth. I suppose he’s awfully good.”