Since he was living alone, he had not seen her at all. She greeted him, when he came, as usual, cordially, with no hint of the empty months without him. Her eyes no longer searched him with hot, comfortless inquiries. It was as if she had done everything she could to be acceptable to David. She was quite ready. “Just a minute, while I throw on my cloak. It’s very warm, isn’t it? It isn’t going to rain?” “I don’t think so. It’s a glorious night.” “A glorious night? Do you think we have time to walk a little?” He watched her finally settling her hair before the mirror. She was “dressed-up” in a slim white gown. She was ugly. Her head outweighed her body: it gave her a gaunt and naked look in her white dress. The yellow skin of her face broke the paltry shimmer of her gown into green and gray. “I’m afraid,” said David, “we might be late if we walked.” “Very well.” She came up to him and smiled. “Come.” She opened the door. “Well, Davie, tell me how have you been?” It was hard for him to speak. It was impossible for him to smile as he wished to. Cornelia seemed inadequate to his young hunger. He was angry at himself for this. He owed her better. He was not a very good and loyal friend, he supposed. Tom was right in what he said, however wrong in what he was. He walked beside Cornelia to the car, through the sweet May night: and in order to hold himself beside her and take her arm at the crossing, he needed to forget her.... * * * * * On the top floor of the house of the Daindries was a wide quiet room which Helen had fitted out for her own. Its easy spaces were conserved and rounded by the uncluttered furniture. Nothing was large and ponderous to defeat them. Two lamps stood wide away on little tables. Their low light brought out the warm dark stroke of the couch and absorbed the rugs. The gray walls had a retreating texture. The guests sat very hushed and hidden in the shadows and the music. A tall girl swayed by the piano: she was raw-boned and gaunt above the light of the lamp. Her docked hair flung away from the sheer strong forehead. She played with a restraint that burned: it was her restraint that she flung circling and lowering from her sharp shoulders down upon the hidden guests. The guests sat, suddenly tamed, suddenly cowed. They were the world to David--a motley mass made one by the dark and the music, that would rise up again and be a tearing thing against his life. Now they were breathing hard; something had shut them up in their own narrow breasts. The girl stepped toward them, away from the piano. The piano was silent. He who had sat at it and followed her mood, who had trailed like a wake in a muffled sea upon her passage was now withdrawn. The girl stood like one naked above the room. The music she had played and the guests lay trammeled spirits at her feet. She moved and stepped upon them. She lifted her violin to play alone. It was Bach she was playing.