hed her intently.

"Does this thing play?" she said.

"What?" I asked.

"Does this thing play?"

I roused myself from my preoccupation.

"Like a musical gorilla with fingers all of one length. And a sort of
soul.... It's all the world of music to me."

"What do you play?"

"Beethoven, when I want to clear up my head while I'm working. He
is--how one would always like to work. Sometimes Chopin and those
others, but Beethoven. Beethoven mainly. Yes."

Silence again between us. She spoke with an effort.

"Play me something." She turned from me and explored the rack of
music rolls, became interested and took a piece, the first part of the
Kreutzer Sonata, hesitated. "No," she said, "that!"

She gave me Brahms' Second Concerto, Op. 58, and curled up on the sofa
watching me as I set myself slowly to play....

"I say," he said when I had done, "that's fine. I didn't know those
things could play like that. I'm all astir..."

She came and stood over me, looking at me. "I'm going to have a
concert," she said abruptly, and laughed uneasily and hovered at the
pigeon-holes. "Now--now what shall I have?" She chose more of Brahms.
Then we came to the Kreutzer Sonata. It is queer how Tolstoy has loaded
that with suggestions, debauched it, made it a scandalous and intimate
symbol. When I had played the first part of that, she came up to the
pianola and hesitated over me. I sat stiffly--waiting.

Suddenly she seized my downcast head and kissed my hair. She caught at
my face between her hands and kissed my lips. I put my arms about her
and we kissed together. I sprang to my feet and clasped her.

"Beatrice!" I said. "Beatrice!"

"My dear," she whispered, nearly breathless, with her arms about me.
"Oh! my dear!"

II

Love, like everything else in this immense process of social
disorganisation in which we live, is a thing adrift, a fruitless thing
broken away from its connexions. I tell of this love affair here because
of its irrelevance, because it is so remarkable that it should mean
nothing, and be nothing except itself. It glows in my memory like some
bright casual flower starting up amidst the debris of a catastrophe.
For nearly a fortnight we two met and made love together. Once more this
mighty passion, that our aimless civilisation has fettered and maimed
and sterilised and debased, gripped me and filled me with passionate
delights and solemn joys--that were all, you know, futile and
purposeless. Once more I h