The piano was clothed from head to foot in a heavy red baize cover, even its legs being buttoned round in what looked like Alpine Sport gaiters, and the baize flap that protected the keys had buttons all along it from one end to the other. In order to play, these buttons had first to be undone,--Wemyss wasn't going to have the expensive piano not taken care of. It had been his wedding present to Vera--how he had loved that woman!--and he had had the baize clothes made specially, and had instructed Vera that whenever the piano was not in use it was to have them on, properly fastened. What trouble he had had with her at first about it. She was always forgetting to button it up again. She would be playing, and get up and go away to lunch, or tea, or out into the garden, and leave it uncovered with the damp and dust getting into it, and not only uncovered but with its lid open. Then, when she found that he went in to see if she had remembered, she did for a time cover it up in the intervals of playing, but never buttoned all its buttons; invariably he found that some had been forgotten. It had cost £150. Women had no sense of property. They were unfit to have the charge of valuables. Besides, they got tired of them. Vera had actually quite soon got tired of the piano. His present. That wasn't very loving of her. And when he said anything about it she wouldn't speak. Sulked. How profoundly he disliked sulking. And she, who had made such a fuss about music when first he met her, gave up playing, and for years no one had touched the piano. Well, at least it was being taken care of. From habit he stooped and ran his eye up its gaiters. All buttoned. Stay--no; one buttonhole gaped. He stooped closer and put out his hand to button it, and found the button gone. No button. Only an end of thread. How was that? He straightened himself, and went to the fireplace and rang the bell. Then he waited, looking at his watch. Long ago he had timed the distances between the different rooms and the servants' quarters, allowing for average walking and one minute's margin for getting under way at the start, so that he knew exactly at what moment the parlourmaid ought to appear. She appeared just as time was up and his finger was moving towards the bell again. 'Look at that piano-leg,' said Wemyss. The parlourmaid, not knowing which leg, looked at all three so as to be safe. 'What do you see?' he asked. The parlourmaid was reluctant to say. What she saw was piano-legs, but she felt that wasn't the right answer. 'What do you _not_ see?' Wemyss asked, louder. This was much more difficult, because there were so many things she didn't see; her parents, for instance. 'Are you deaf, woman?' he inquired. She knew the answer to that, and said it quickly. 'No sir,' she said. 'Look at that piano-leg, I say,' said Wemyss, pointing with his pipe.