"The piano--the piano. But then she had a wonderful execution and sympathy--it was truly wonderful for a lady, and she so young. Women play much better now, as a rule, but I never hear one who is an amateur play as she did. And so quick--so quick! It was an inspiration with her. Yes, this was written on purpose for that lady--I have had it ever since--it has never been published. The manuscript is in her own hand. She wrote out much of her music in her own hand. It was many, many years ago, and I was a young man then. We were fellow-pupils before I became her master, and she was my pupil only for a few weeks. It was a farce--a farce. She did not play the violin, but in everything else she was better than I. Ah, she was a great genius, that young lady. She was a great loss to the world of art." "Did she die, Herr Wüllner?" "She eloped," he said softly, "she ran away with a scapegrace. And the ship she sailed in was lost at sea." "Dear me! How very sad. Well, you must make your friend try it over, and, if you manage it all right, bring him with you to my house on Monday evening and let me hear it." "That shall give me great pleasure," said the old man, bowing low. "You have your violin with you, I suppose?" she asked. "It is in the hall, under my cloak. I do not bring it into this room," he replied. "Why not?" she persisted. "Go and fetch it, Herr Wüllner, and let Mrs. Aarons hear you play it"--suddenly bethinking herself of her hostess and smiling upon that lady--"if she has never had that treat before." Mrs. Aarons was eager to hear the violin, and Herr Wüllner went himself, though reluctantly, to fetch his treasure from the old case that he had hidden away below. When he had tuned up his strings a little, and had tucked the instrument lovingly under his chin, he looked at Mrs. Duff-Scott and said softly, "What?" "Oh," cried Mrs. Aarons, striking in, "play that--you know--what you were talking of just now--what Mrs. Duff-Scott wanted so much to hear. _I_ want to hear it too." "Impossible--impossible," he said quickly, almost with a shudder. "It has a piano part, and there is no one here to take that." Then Paul Brion broke in, conscious that he was running heavy risks of all sorts, but resolved to seize his chance. "I think there _is_ someone who could play it," he said to Mrs. Aarons, speaking with elaborate distinctness. "The Miss Kings--one of them, at any rate--" "Nonsense," interrupted Mrs. Aarons, sharply, but under her breath. "Not at all likely." She was annoyed by the suggestion, and wished to treat it as if unheard (it was unreasonable, on the face of it, of course); but Mrs. Duff-Scott caught at it in her direct way. "Who are they? Which are the Miss Kings?" she asked of Paul, putting up her eye-glass to see what manner of man had taken upon himself to interfere.