cles
at a strain. In memory, she went over what he had said, reflected on
what his words meant, and strove, honestly, to project herself into
that part of his life, of which she knew nothing. But it was not easy;
for one thing, the smell of the roses was too strong; it seemed to
hinder her imagination. They had the scent that only deep red roses
have--one which seems to come from a distance, from the very heart of
cool, pure things--and more and more, she felt as if something within
her were trying to find vent in it, something that swelled up,
subsided, and mounted again, with what was almost a physical effort. It
had been the truth when she told him that she understood; but it had
touched her strangely all the same: for it had let her see into an
unsuspected corner of his nature. He, too, then, had a cranny in his
brain, where such fancies lodged--such an eccentric, artist fancy, or
whim, or superstition--as that, out of several hundred people, a single
individual could distract and disturb. He ... too!

The little word had done it. Now she knew--knew what the roses had been
trying to tell her. And as if invisible hands had touched a spring in
her brain, thereby opening some secret place, the memory of a certain
hour returned to her, returned with such force that she fell on her
knees, and pressed her face to the seat of the sofa. On the floor
beside her lay the roses. Why, oh why, had he needed to bring them to
her, on this night of all others?

On the day she remembered, they had been lavished over the room-one
June evening, two years ago. And ever afterwards, the scent of
blood-red roses had been associated for her with one of the sweet,
leading themes in Beethoven's violin concerto. There was a special
concert that night at the Conservatorium; the hall was filled to the
last place. She waited with him in the green-room, until his turn came
to play. Then she went into the hall, and stood at the back, under the
gallery. Once more, she was aware of the stir that ran through the
audience, as Schilsky walked down the platform. Hardly, however, had he
drawn his bow across the strings, when she felt a touch on her arm, and
a Russian, who was an intimate friend of his, beckoned her outside.
There, he told her that he had been sent to ask her to leave the hall;
and they smiled at each other, in understanding of the whim.
Afterwards, she learned how, just about to step on to the platform,
Schilsky had had a presentiment t