Violin nestled beneath his chin, he began to play. Superlatively toned, the instrument hummed beneath his sweeping bow like a human thing. The penetrating sweetness pierced Claire's heart. It sang a plaintive melody, simple as an ancient love song. The mellow tones rose higher and higher, finally repeating themselves in head notes clear and brittle as crystal. As the last note shrilled lingeringly upon the air, Claire smiled through tears into Alexis' exalted face. "Oh, Alexis, how happy I am for you! Shall you play in public again soon?" He replaced the violin within its case, and crossing the room sat down beside her. "I hope to be ready for a recital the middle of January. From now on I shall practice every moment. Do you remember my old manager, Rosenfield? I've engaged him again. Funny fellow, but enthusiastic as ever." "Have you made any special plans?" Claire's voice was strained. Would he never come to the point? "Well," he hesitated a moment, dreading how she might take what he was going to say, "Yes, I have. The doctors wanted me to go South for the rest of the winter, but I couldn't bear to go away so far from" he faltered a little--"so far from New York and Rosenfield. I'm so anxious to get to work again. So we compromised on Long Island. The air is wonderful there. I have taken Karzimova's house, the Russian actress, you know, until the first of May. It is an Italian villa, and rather gorgeous. She didn't want to rent it, although she is in Europe, but when they cabled her who I was and that I had been ill, she gave in rather graciously, and let me have it for a ridiculous price. They say she is mad about music." So this was what she had come to hear? She was to lose Alexis entirely, then? "When are you moving out?" "In about a week, I believe. Don't you think it is the best thing I can do?" "Oh, Alexis, if you are happy, what more can I ask?" Her brimming eyes touched him to the quick. "Little Claire, what a gentle thing you are. Far too dear for an egotistical brute like me." He touched her gloved hand, and gazed down at her stormily. He noted with surprise that she was looking almost pretty. Her hat was actually becoming, and the long earrings lent her an elfin charm. What had she been doing to herself? Was the pathetic desire to attract him at the root of the change? The tragedy of it! Was it possible that he had ever possessed this girl, of whose body he retained scarcely a recollection? The very thought seemed incestuous. She was not a woman but a sister. The little Claire of nursery days, the older Claire of flushed cheeks and timid ardors, yes, her image was still vivid, and even dear, so intermingled with her companionship were his earliest recollections. But Claire, the wife of a few hectic months, the submissive puppet of rare and intermittent contacts, was unthinkable. She had existed only within the hideous confines of his disordered brain.