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She closed her eyes as if asleep, her hands folded neatly on her abdomen. E. Gladstone would have to a carelessly displayed interior on a dissecting-room table. All that is jolly and as it should be. She marvelled at his apparent imperviousness to the heat. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. She didn’t choose her man. ” “It’s an unrest—a longing—What’s that?” The waiter had intervened.
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