d do so, if not, I could go away again myself.

I entered. The room was somewhat dark, but I went in and had almost
come to the piano before I recognized the player--Courvoisier. Overcome
with vexation and confusion at the _contretemps_, I paused a moment,
undecided whether to turn back and go out again. In any case I resolved
not to remain in the room. He was seated with his back to me, and still
continued to play. Some music was on the desk of the piano before him.

I might turn back without being observed. I would do so. Hardly,
though--a mirror hung directly before the piano, and I now saw that
while he continued to play, he was quietly looking at me, and that his
keen eyes--that hawk's glance which I knew so well--must have recognized
me. That decided me. I would not turn back. It would be a silly,
senseless proceeding, and would look much more invidious than my
remaining. I walked up to the piano, and he turned, still playing.

"_Guten Tag, mein Fraeulein._"

I merely bowed, and began to search through a pile of songs and music
upon the piano. I would at any rate take some away with me to give some
color to my proceedings. Meanwhile he played on.

I selected a song, not in the least knowing what it was, and rolling it
up, was turning away.

"Are you busy, Miss Wedderburn?"

"N--no."

"Would it be asking too much of you to play the pianoforte
accompaniment?"

"I will try," said I, speaking briefly, and slowly drawing off my
gloves.

"If it is disagreeable to you, don't do it," said he, pausing.

"Not in the very least," said I, avoiding looking at him.

He opened the music. It was one of Jensen's "Wanderbilder" for piano and
violin--the "Kreuz am Wege."

"I have only tried it once before," I remarked, "and I am a dreadful
bungler."

"_Bitte sehr!_" said he, smiling, arranging his own music on one of the
stands and adding, "Now I am ready."

I found my hands trembling so much that I could scarcely follow the
music. Truly this man, with his changes from silence to talkativeness,
from ironical hardness to cordiality, was a puzzle and a trial to me.

"Das Kreuz am Wege" turned out rather lame. I said so when it was over.

"Suppose we try it again," he suggested, and we did so. I found my
fingers lingering and forgetting their part as I listened to the
piercing beauty of his notes.

"That is dismal," said he.

"It is a dismal subject, is it not?"

"Suggestive, at least. 'The Cross by the Waysid