heavy gilt cornice. Between the curtains she could catch a glimpse of the balcony railings and strips between them of the brown brickwork of the opposite house. She stared at the vague scatter of vases and bowls and small ornaments standing in front of the large overmantel and dimly reflected in its dusty mirror. Two tall vases on the mantelshelf holding dried grasses carried her eyes up to two short vases holding dried grasses standing on the wooden-pillared brackets of the overmantel, and back again to themselves. She rose and turned away to shake off their influence and turned back again at once to see what had attracted her attention. Satsuma; at either end of the mantelpiece shutting in the scatter of vases and bowls two large squat rounded Satsuma basins--with arched lids. On the centre of each lid was a little gilded knob. Extraordinary. Unlike any Satsuma she had ever seen. Where had they come from? She wandered about the room, eagerly taking in battered chairs and more little tables and whatnots and faded pictures on the faded walls. What was it that had risen in her mind as she came into the room? She recalled the moment of coming in. The _piano_ ... the quiet shock of it standing there with the shut-in waiting look of a piano, confronting the large stillness of the room.... Turning to face it she passed into the world of drawing-room pianos; the rosewood case, the faded rose silk pleating strained taut, its margin hidden under a rosewood trellis; the little tarnished sconces, for shaded candles, the small leather-topped easily twirling stool with its single thick deeply carved leg, a lady sitting, tinkling and flourishing delicately through airs with variations; an English piano, perfectly wrought and finished, music swathed and hidden in elegance ... "a little music" ... but chiefly the seated form, the small cooped body, the voluminous draperies bulging over the stool and spreading in under the keyboard and down about the floor, the elegantly straying arms and mincing hands, the arch swaying of the head and shoulders, the face bent delicately in the becoming play of light.... She opened the lid. It went back from the keys till it lay flat, presenting a little music-stand folded into the sweep of its upper edge. Mustiness rose from the keys. They were loose and yellow with age. Softly struck notes shattered the silence of the room. She stood listening with loudly beating heart. The door would open and show a face with surprised eyes staring into her betrayed consciousness. The house remained silent. Her fingers strayed forward and ran up a scale. The notes were all run down but they rang fairly true to each other.