“I’m a mere vestige,” I said. She made no answer, but remained regarding me steadfastly with a curious air of proprietorship. “You know I’m the living survivor now of the great smash. I’m rolling and dropping down through all the scaffolding of the social system.... It’s all a chance whether I roll out free at the bottom, or go down a crack into the darkness out of sight for a year or two.” “The sun,” she remarked irrelevantly, “has burnt you.... I’m getting down.” She swung herself down into my arms, and stood beside me face to face. “Where’s Cothope?” she asked. “Gone.” Her eyes flitted to the pavilion and back to me. We stood close together, extraordinarily intimate, and extraordinarily apart. “I’ve never seen this cottage of yours,” she said, “and I want to.” She flung the bridle of her horse round the veranda post, and I helped her tie it. “Did you get what you went for to Africa?” she asked. “No,” I said, “I lost my ship.” “And that lost everything?” “Everything.” She walked before me into the living-room of the chalet, and I saw that she gripped her riding-whip very tightly in her hand. She looked about her for a moment,—and then at me. “It’s comfortable,” she remarked. Our eyes met in a conversation very different from the one upon our lips. A sombre glow surrounded us, drew us together; an unwonted shyness kept us apart. She roused herself, after an instant’s pause, to examine my furniture. “You have chintz curtains. I thought men were too feckless to have curtains without a woman. But, of course, your aunt did that! And a couch and a brass fender, and—is that a pianola? That is your desk. I thought men’s desks were always untidy, and covered with dust and tobacco ash.” She flitted to my colour prints and my little case of books. Then she went to the pianola. I watched her intently. “Does this thing play?” she said. “What?” I asked. “Does this thing play?” I roused myself from my preoccupation. “Like a musical gorilla with fingers all of one length. And a sort of soul.... It’s all the world of music to me.” “What do you play?” “Beethoven, when I want to clear up my head while I’m working. He is—how one would always like to work. Sometimes Chopin and those others, but Beethoven. Beethoven mainly. Yes.” Silence again between us. She spoke with an effort. “Play me something.” She turned from me and explored the rack of music rolls, became interested and took a piece, the first part of the Kreutzer Sonata, hesitated. “No,” she said, “that!” She gave me Brahms’ Second Concerto, Op. 58, and curled up on the sofa watching me as I set myself slowly to play.... “I say,” he said when I had done, “that’s fine. I didn’t know those things could play like that. I’m all astir...”