the 'cello, were clad in black satin breeches, black silk stockings were
on the shapely legs; while on the feet, planted firmly upon the floor,
gleamed diamond shoe-buckles.

Ronnie gazed at this reflection.

Each movement of the gliding bow, corresponded to the rhythm of the
music now throbbing through the studio.

Ronnie played on, gazing into the mirror. The man in the mirror did not
lift his eyes, nor look at Ronnie. Either they were bent upon the
'cello, or he played with them fast closed.

Ronnie dared not look down at his own hands. He could feel his fingers
moving up and down the strings, as moved the fingers in the mirror. He
feared he should see lace ruffles falling from his wrists, if he looked
at his own hands.

The fire burned low again.

Still Ronnie played on, staring before him as he played. The music
gained in volume and in beauty.

The fire burned lower. The room was nearly dark. The reflection was
almost hidden.

Ronnie, straining his eyes, could see only the white line of the low
square forehead.

He wished the eyes would lift and look at him, piercing the darkness of
the darkening room.

Another log fell. Again flames darted upwards. Each detail in the
mirror was clear once more.

The playing grew more rapid. Ronnie felt his fingers flying, yet
pressing deeply as they flew.

The right foot of the figure, placed further back than the left, was
slightly raised. The heel was off the floor.

Ronnie's right heel was also lifted.

Then, looking past the figure in the chair, he marked behind him, where
in the reflection of the studio should have been the door, heavy black
curtains hanging in sombre folds. And, even as Ronnie noticed these,
they parted; and the lovely face of a woman looked in.

As Ronnie saw that face he remembered many things--things of exquisite
joy, things of poignant sorrow; things inexpressible except in music,
unutterable except in tone.

The 'cello sobbed, and wailed, and sang itself slowly into a minor
theme; yet the passion of the minor was more subtle, sweeter far, than
the triumph of the major.

The woman glided in.

Ronnie watched her. She came and softly stood behind the Florentine
chair.

Apparently she made no sound. The 'cellist did not raise his eyes. He
appeared totally unconscious of her presence.

The woman bent her beautiful head, observing him closely. Following her
eyes, Ronnie saw a ruffle of old lace falling from the 'cellist's
throat,