'Do you always play like that?' I asked at length. 'No,' he said; 'only when you are there. I have never played the Chopin Fantasia as I played it to-night. The Chopin was all right; but do not be under any illusion: what you have just heard is Bach played by a Chopin player.' Then he left the piano and went to the small table where the glasses were. 'You must be in need of refreshment,' he whispered gaily. 'Nothing is more exhausting than listening to the finest music.' 'It is you who ought to be tired,' I replied; 'after that long concert, to be playing now.' 'I have the physique of a camel,' he said. 'I am never tired so long as I am sure of my listeners. I would play for you till breakfast to-morrow.' The decanter contained a fluid of a pleasant green tint. He poured very carefully this fluid to the depth of half an inch in one glass and three-quarters of an inch in another glass. Then he filled both glasses to the brim with water, accomplishing the feat with infinite pains and enjoyment, as though it had been part of a ritual. 'There!' he said, offering me in his steady hand the glass which had received the smaller quantity of the green fluid. 'Taste.' 'But what is it?' I demanded. 'Taste,' he repeated, and he himself tasted. I obeyed. At the first mouthful I thought the liquid was somewhat sinister and disagreeable, but immediately afterwards I changed my opinion, and found it ingratiating, enticing, and stimulating, and yet not strong. 'Do you like it?' he asked. I nodded, and drank again. 'It is wonderful,' I answered. 'What do you call it?' 'Men call it absinthe,' he said. 'But--' I put the glass on the mantelpiece and picked it up again. 'Don't be frightened,' he soothed me. 'I know what you were going to say. You have always heard that absinthe is the deadliest of all poisons, that it is the curse of Paris, and that it makes the most terrible of all drunkards. So it is; so it does. But not as we are drinking it; not as I invariably drink it.' 'Of course,' I said, proudly confident in him. 'You would not have offered it to me otherwise.' 'Of course I should not,' he agreed. 'I give you my word that a few drops of absinthe in a tumbler of water make the most effective and the least harmful stimulant in the world.' 'I am sure of it,' I said. 'But drink slowly,' he advised me. I refused the sandwiches. I had no need of them. I felt sufficient unto myself. I no longer had any apprehension. My body, my brain, and my soul seemed to be at the highest pitch of efficiency. The fear of being maladroit departed from me. Ideas--delicate and subtle ideas--welled up in me one after another; I was bound to give utterance to them. I began to talk about my idol Chopin, and I explained to Diaz my esoteric interpretation of the Fantasia. He was sitting down now, but I still stood by the fire. 'Yes, he said, 'that is very interesting.' 'What does the Fantasia mean to you?' I asked him. 'Nothing,' he said. 'Nothing!'