Jonathan's mother slept. But for two hours the man who was no longer manikin and the girl who in real life was only a frail little bookkeeper played to David: a brilliant polonaise, a nocturne that was moonlight and shadow set to music, a concerto that only the masters attempt, a few noble old classics. Between them she sang thrice, songs chosen by Jonathan, each a little more taxing than the one before. Not once did she falter and only once, in the last song where her contralto voice had to take _b_-flat above middle _c_, was there a hint of strain. More than rare harmonies and melodies and rhythms were coming to David. Player and singer, though they did not know it, were giving themselves to him. This was the man, and that the girl, whom--rather patronizingly, as though he were conferring a favor--he had let proffer their simple unaffected friendship! "He gave up his work of his own accord for that poor old woman who can't even guess at what it cost him. _She_ was forced out of hers when success was in sight. I don't know which is worse. And _they_ don't make gloomy grandeur out of it." The last song, to which Jonathan improvised an obbligato, ended the music. Esther--for that was her name--pointed in dismay, toward the clock and the sleeping hostess. "Thank you," said David from his heart. He was thanking them for more than the music. Mrs. Radbourne stirred, yawning daintily. "Are you stopping so soon? My dear, you sang very prettily. Jonathan, you surpassed yourself. Particularly in the _Largo_. I remember Ole Bull, in 'sixty-seven. . . ." When that anecdote was concluded, the guests rose to leave. Because it was very late, Mrs. Radbourne prevailed upon Esther to stay overnight. David would not be persuaded. So they gathered around him at the door. And, having shaken hands, he said again: "Thank you. And I should like to say--" A sudden awkward lump jumped into his throat. He began anew, "I should like to say--" But what he would like to say would not be said. "Good night," he forced out abruptly and hurried into the night. Jonathan Radbourne stood before the cold fireplace, tugging with both hands at his whiskers. "Miss Summers," he said, "that young man grows nicer all the time." "Yes," she said. "I wish I could make things brighter for him." "You are, I think." "No more than he has earned from me. He's a very faithful worker, you know. I must look up some of his professional work. And I have an idea that concerns you, young lady. There's a new throat specialist I've just heard of. You're to call on him on Monday." David walked home. When that absurd lump had been conquered he began to whistle determinedly, as became a young man who was no longer to make gloomy grandeur out of his failure. He kept it up until he reached the apartment and its chill loneliness smote him.