It was only when he struck the first few notes that she realised what it was she had put in front of him; when she did, she was startled. Whether he understood what the piece was there for--that he was being set to play it as an exhibition of his ignorance rather than of his knowledge--was difficult to say. It is quite possible that in the preoccupation of his mind it had escaped him altogether that the sole excuse for his presence in that room lay in the fact that he was seeking lessons from this young girl. There could be no doubt whatever that at least one of the things that he had said of himself was true, and that he did love music; there could be just as little doubt that he already was a musician of a quite unusual calibre--one who had been both born and made. He played the delicate fragment with an exquisite art which filled Madge Brodie with amazement. She had never heard it played like that before--never! Not even by her own professor. Perhaps her surprise was so great that, in the first flush of it, she exaggerated the player's powers. It seemed to her that this man played like one who saw into the very depths of the composer's soul, and who had all the highest resources of his art at his command to enable him to give a perfect--an ideal--rendering. Such an exquisite touch! such masterly fingering! such wondrous phrasing! such light and shade! such insight and such execution! She had not supposed that her cheap piano had been capable of such celestial harmony. She listened spellbound--for she, too, had imagination, and she, too, loved music. All was forgotten in the moment's rapture--in her delight at hearing so unexpectedly sounding in her ears, what seemed to her, in her excitement, the very music of the spheres. The player seemed to be as oblivious of his surroundings as Madge Brodie--his very being seemed wrapped up in the ecstasy of producing the quaint, sweet music for the stately old-time measure. When he had finished, the couple came back to earth, with a rush. With an apparent burst of recollection his hands came off the keyboard, and he wheeled round upon the music-stool with an air of conscience-stricken guilt. Madge stood close by, actually quivering with a conflict of emotions. He met her eyes--instantly to avert his own. There was silence--then a slight tremor in her voice in spite of her effort to prevent it. "I suppose you have been having a little jest at my expense." "A jest at your expense?" "I daresay that is what you call it--though I believe in questions of humour there is room for wide differences of opinion. I should call it something else." "I don't understand you." "That is false." At this point-blank contradiction, the blood showed through his sallow cheeks. "False?" "Yes, false. You do understand me. Did you not say that you had been for some time seeking for an opportunity to take lessons in music?" "I--I----" Confronted by her red-hot accusatory glances, he stammered, stumbled, stopped.