“Would it disturb you if I played the piano a few minutes, Madame Rod?” Andrews found himself asking all at once. “No, go ahead. We'll come in later and listen to you.” It was only as he left the room that he realized he had been talking to the two cousins as well as to Madame Rod. At the piano he forgot everything and regained his mood of vague joyousness. He found paper and a pencil in his pocket, and played the theme that had come to him while he had been washing windows at the top: of a step-ladder at training camp arranging it, modelling it, forgetting everything, absorbed in his rhythms and cadences. When he stopped work it was nearly dark. Genevieve Rod, a veil round her head, stood in the French window that led to the garden. “I heard you,” she said. “Go on.” “I'm through. How was your motor ride?” “I loved it. It's not often I get a chance to go motoring.” “Nor is it often I get a chance to talk to you alone,” cried Andrews bitterly. “You seem to feel you have rights of ownership over me. I resent it. No one has rights over me.” She spoke as if it were not the first time she had thought of the phrase. He walked over and leaned against the window beside her. “Has it made such a difference to you, Genevieve, finding out that I am a deserter?” “No, of course not,” she said hastily. “I think it has, Genevieve.... What do you want me to do? Do you think I should give myself up? A man I knew in Paris has given himself up, but he hadn't taken his uniform off. It seems that makes a difference. He was a nice fellow. His name was Al, he was from San Francisco. He had nerve, for he amputated his own little finger when his hand was crushed by a freight car.” “Oh, no, no. Oh, this is so frightful. And you would have been a great composer. I feel sure of it.” “Why, would have been? The stuff I'm doing now's better than any of the dribbling things I've done before, I know that.” “Oh, yes, but you'll need to study, to get yourself known.” “If I can pull through six months, I'm safe. The army will have gone. I don't believe they extradite deserters.” “Yes, but the shame of it, the danger of being found out all the time.” “I am ashamed of many things in my life, Genevieve. I'm rather proud of this.” “But can't you understand that other people haven't your notions of individual liberty?” “I must go, Genevieve.” “You must come in again soon.” “One of these days.”