'Come and sit down,' I said. 'You don't mind the smoke?' I drew a chair up to the fire for her, feeling, as I did so, a certain pride. Here I was, alone with her in the firelight, and my pulse was regular and my brain cool. I had a momentary vision of myself as the Strong Man, the strong, quiet man with the iron grip on his emotions. I was pleased with myself. She sat for some minutes, gazing into the fire. Little spurts of flame whistled comfortably in the heart of the black-red coals. Outside the storm shrieked faintly, and flurries of rain dashed themselves against the window. 'It's very nice in here,' she said at last. 'Peaceful.' I filled my pipe and re-lit it. Her eyes, seen for an instant in the light of the match, looked dreamy. 'I've been sitting here listening to you,' I said. 'I liked that last thing you played.' 'You always did.' 'You remember that? Do you remember one evening--no, you wouldn't.' 'Which evening?' 'Oh, you wouldn't remember. It's only one particular evening when you played that thing. It sticks in my mind. It was at your father's studio.' She looked up quickly. 'We went out afterwards and sat in the park.' I sat up thrilled. 'A man came by with a dog,' I said. 'Two dogs.' 'One surely!' 'Two. A bull-dog and a fox-terrier.' 'I remember the bull-dog, but--by Jove, you're right. A fox-terrier with a black patch over his left eye.' 'Right eye.' 'Right eye. They came up to us, and you--' 'Gave them chocolates.' I sank back slowly in my chair. 'You've got a wonderful memory,' I said. She bent over the fire without speaking. The rain rattled on the window. 'So you still like my playing, Peter?' 'I like it better than ever; there's something in it now that I don't believe there used to be. I can't describe it--something--' 'I think it's knowledge, Peter,' she said quietly. 'Experience. I'm five years older than I was when I used to play to you before, and I've seen a good deal in those five years. It may not be altogether pleasant seeing life, but--well, it makes you play the piano better. Experience goes in at the heart and comes out at the finger-tips.' It seemed to me that she spoke a little bitterly. 'Have you had a bad time, Audrey, these last years?' I said. 'Pretty bad.' 'I'm sorry.' 'I'm not--altogether. I've learned a lot.' She was silent again, her eyes fixed on the fire. 'What are you thinking about?' I said. 'Oh, a great many things.' 'Pleasant?' 'Mixed. The last thing I thought about was pleasant. That was, that I am very lucky to be doing the work I am doing now. Compared with some of the things I have done--' She shivered. 'I wish you would tell me about those years, Audrey,' I said. 'What were some of the things you did?' She leaned back in her chair and shaded her face from the fire with a newspaper. Her eyes were in the shadow. 'Well, let me see. I was a nurse for some time at the Lafayette Hospital in New York.' 'That's hard work?'