A pause followed. How well she remembered listening for that pause when she played, in public!--The brief, pulsating silence which falls while the thought of the audience steal back from the fairyland whither they have wandered and readjust themselves reluctantly to the things of daily life. And then, the outburst of applause. In silence she awaited Roger's approval, her lips just parted, her face still alight with the joy of the creator who knows that his work is good. But the words for which she was listening did not come. . . . Instead--utter silence! . . . Wondering, half apprehensive of she knew not what, Nan twisted round on the music-seat and looked across to where Roger was sitting. The sharp, quick intake of her breath broke the silence as might a cry. Weary after his long day in the saddle, soothed by the warmth of the fire and the rhythm of the music, Roger was sleeping peacefully, his head thrown back against a cushion! Nan rose slowly and, coming forward into the circle of the firelight, stared down at him incredulously. It was unbelievable! She had been giving him all the best that was in her--the work of her brain, the interpretation of her hands--baring her very heart to him during the last half-hour. And he had slept through it all! In any other circumstances, probably, the humorous side of the matter would have struck her, and the sting and smart of it been washed away in laughter. But just now it was impossible for her to feel anything but bitterness and hopeless disappointment. For weeks she had been working hard, without the fillip of congenial atmosphere, doggedly sticking to it in spite of depression and discouragement, and now that the results of her labour were ready to be given to the world, she was strung up to a high pitch and ill-prepared to receive a sudden check. She had counted so intensely on winning Roger's sympathy and understanding--on putting an end to that blundering, terrible jealousy of his by playing the game to the limit of her ability. It had been like making a burnt-offering for her to share the thing she loved best with Roger--to let him into some of the secret places where dwelt her inmost dreams and emotions. And she had nerved herself to do it, made her sacrifice--in vain! Roger was even unconscious that it was a sacrifice! She looked down at him as he lay with the firelight flickering across his strong-featured face, and a storm of fury and indignation swept over her. She could have struck him! Presently he stirred uneasily. Perhaps he felt the cessation of the music, the sense of someone moving in the room. A moment later he opened his eyes and saw her standing beside him. "You, darling?" he murmured drowsily. He stretched his arms. "I think . . . I've been to sleep." Then, recollection returning to him: "By Jove! And you were playing to me--" "Yes," she answered slowly. Her lips felt dry. "And I'll never play to you again as long as I live!"