'Yes,' he cried quickly, 'I can.' And he sprang up and almost ran to the piano. 'You remember the D flat Prelude?' he said, breaking into the latter part of the air, and looking at me the while. 'When I came to that note and caught your gaze'--he struck the B flat and held it--'I knew that I had found sympathy. I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! Do you remember?' 'Remember what?' 'The way we looked at each other.' 'Yes,' I breathed, 'I remember.' 'How can I thank you? How can I thank you?' He seemed to be meditating. His simplicity, his humility, his kindliness were more than I could bear. 'Please do not speak like that,' I entreated him, pained. 'You are the greatest artist in the world, and I am nobody--nobody at all. I do not know why I am here. I cannot imagine what you have seen in me. Everything is a mystery. All I feel is that I am in your presence, and that I am not worthy to be. No matter how long I live, I shall never experience again the joy that I have now. But if you talk about thanking me, I must run away, because I cannot stand it--and--and--you haven't played for me, and you said you would.' He approached me, and bent his head towards mine, and I glanced up through a mist and saw his eyes and the short, curly auburn locks on his forehead. 'The most beautiful things, and the most vital things, and the most lasting things,' he said softly, 'are often mysterious and inexplicable and sudden. And let me tell you that you do not know how lovely you are. You do not know the magic of your voice, nor the grace of your gestures. But time and man will teach you. What shall I play?' He was very close to me. 'Bach,' I ejaculated, pointing impatiently to the piano. I fancied that Bach would spread peace abroad in my soul. He resumed his place at the piano, and touched the keys. 'Another thing that makes me more sure that I am not deceiving myself to-night,' he said, taking his fingers off the keys, but staring at the keyboard, 'is that you have not regretted coming here. You have not called yourself a wicked woman. You have not even accused me of taking advantage of your innocence.' And ere I could say a word he had begun the Chromatic Fantasia, smiling faintly. And I had hoped for peace from Bach! I had often suspected that deep passion was concealed almost everywhere within the restraint and the apparent calm of Bach's music, but the full force of it had not been shown to me till this glorious night. Diaz' playing was tenfold more impressive, more effective, more revealing in the hotel parlour than in the great hall. The Chromatic Fantasia seemed as full of the magnificence of life as that other Fantasia which he had given an hour or so earlier. Instead of peace I had the whirlwind; instead of tranquillity a riot; instead of the poppy an alarming potion. The rendering was masterly to the extreme of masterliness. When he had finished I rose and passed to the fireplace in silence; he did not stir.