Aberdeen brought them suddenly to an end.

Desmond swung round upon the music-stool, and at sight of her sprang
up hastily, a dull flush showing through his tan.

"Amar Singh told me you were out," he said, as they shook hands.

"So I was. I only came in this minute. Won't you let me hear a little
more, please?"

He shook his head with good-humoured decision.

"I never play to any one ... except Rob, who, being a Scots
Covenanter, disapproves on principle."

"I call that selfish. It's such a rare treat to hear a man play well.
I was delighted when you began. I thought pianos were unheard of up
here."

"Well, ... they are hardly a legitimate item in a Frontier officer's
equipment! This one was ... my mother's," he laid a hand on the
instrument, as though it had been the shoulder of a friend. "The
fellows sat upon me, I assure you, when I brought it out. Told me it
was worse than a wife. But I've carried my point, ... wife and all.
And now, perhaps you will reward me,--if I haven't been too ungracious
to deserve it?"

He whisked away his solitary photo, and opened the piano.

"How do you know I play?" she asked, smiling. She liked his
impetuosity of movement and speech.

"I don't know. I guessed it last night. You carry it in your head?"

"Yes; most of it."

"Real music? The big chaps?"

"Very little else, I'm afraid."

"No need to put it that way here, Miss Meredith. A sonata, please. The
Pathetic."

She sat down to the piano with a little quickening of the breath and
let her fingers rest a moment on the keyboard. Then--sudden, crisp,
and vigorous came the crash of the opening chord.

Honor Meredith's playing was of a piece with her own nature--vivid,
wholesome, impassioned. Her supple fingers drew the heart out of each
wire. Yet she did not find it necessary to sway her body to and fro;
but sat square and upright, her head a little lifted, as though
evolving the music from her soul.

Desmond listened motionless to the opening bars; then, with a long
breath of satisfaction, moved away, and fell to pacing the room.

The Scots Covenanter, scenting the joyful possibility of escape,
trotted hopefully to heel: but, being a dog of discernment, speedily
detected the fraud, and retired to the hearth-rug in disgust. Thence
he scrutinised his master's irrational method of taking exercise,
unfeigned contempt in every line of him, from nose-tip to tail.

The sonata ended, Honor let her hands fall into her l