eur of music, had come in a sceptical mood. He now
sat more erect, his face, eyebrows raised, turned to Blizzard, his ears
recalling to him certain moments of Rubinstein's playing.

But Blizzard no longer hated his piano. It had stood up nobly to his
assault. It was a brave instrument, well-bred, a friend full of rare
qualities--for a friend to show off. And, the swollen veins in his
forehead flattening, he began to make his peace with his piano. It could
do more than shout and rage. It could sing like an angel in all
languages; it could be witty, humorous, heart-rending, heart-healing,
chaste, passionate, helpful, mischievous. And it could be wise and
eloquent. It could stand up for a friend, and explain his sins away, and
get him forgiven in high places.

And even as Blizzard thought, so he played. He was no longer conscious
of himself or his guests, not even of Barbara. As for Rose, she was
merely a set of pedals in perfect mechanical adjustment. He was not even
conscious of his thoughts. They came and went without deliberation, and
were expressed as they came and dismissed as they went in the terms of
his extraordinary improvisation.

But it came to this at last, that he thought only of beautiful things,
so that even his face was stripped of wickedness, and his fingers loosed
one by one the voices of angels, until it seemed as if the whole room
was full of them--all singing. And the singing died away to silence.

The legless man looked straight ahead of him into the dim room. Then,
smiling, his head a little on one side, he caressed his piano so that it
gave out Chopin's 7th Prelude, which, as all the world knows, is a
little girl who smiles because she is happy; and she is happy because
so many of the flowers in the garden are blue. It is not known why this
makes her happy, only that it does.

And forthwith he played Chopin and only Chopin: brooks and pools of
sound to which you did not listen, but in which you bathed. And in his
soul the legless man was playing only for Barbara, and only to Barbara.
And so powerful was this obsession that it stole out of him like some
hypnotic influence, affected the others, and gave him away. First Blythe
looked toward Barbara, not realizing why, then Haddon looked, then
Mrs. Bruce.

Barbara felt the warm blood in her cheeks. She was troubled, unhappy,
touched. A man, his face full of unhappy yearning, his soul quick with
genius, was making love to her; asking her to forget