He gave me a gentle little tap of dismissal, and, rather crestfallen, I returned to the dining-room. But neither my entertaining powers nor Mrs. Rayner’s were called into play; for Mr. Maynard was already rather drowsy, and, after sleepily muttering “Bravo--very good!” as the last sounds of Schubert’s “Adieu” died away on Mr. Rayner’s violin, he had to make an effort to listen to a selection from _Rigoletto_, and during some airs from _Martha_ which followed I heard the regular breathing of a sleeping person from the arm-chair where he was sitting. But I was paying little attention to him. The door being shut, I had gone closer and closer to it, as if drawn by an irresistible fascination, as Mr. Rayner seemed to play the “Adieu” as he had never played it before. Every note seemed to vibrate in my own heart, and nothing but fear of his displeasure if I disturbed him before nine o’clock kept me from returning to the drawing-room, where I could have heard each plaintive passionate note unmuffled by the two doors between. When the last note of the “Adieu” had died away, and Mr. Maynard’s coarse voice had broken the spell by his “Bravo--very good!” I listened for the next melody eagerly, and was struck with a chill sense of disappointment as an air from _Rigoletto_ followed. It was not that I did not care for that opera, though it is scarcely one of my favorites, but a certain hardness of touch, which struck me at once as being unlike the rich full tones Mr. Rayner generally drew from his loved violin, grated upon my ear and puzzled me. Of course Mr. Maynard did not notice any difference, and muttered approval from time to time indiscriminately. But my glance stole from him to Mrs. Rayner; and I could see that she also was struck by the curious change of style in her husband’s playing. It was as brilliant as ever; the execution of one of the difficult passages in the arrangement of _Martha_ was clever, more perfect than usual; but the soul was not there, and no brilliancy of shake or cadenza could repay one for the loss. It did not sound like the playing of the same man, and my interest in the music gradually died away; and, after watching Mrs. Rayner curiously for some minutes and noting the intentness with which, sitting upright in her chair, she was listening to the violin and at the same time keeping her eyes fixed upon the slumbering Maynard, I gave myself up to my own agitated thoughts.