Blows on the head have few surgical comparisons. That which kills one man only temporarily stuns another. One man loses his identity; another escapes with all his faculties and suffers but trifling inconvenience. In Hawksley's case the blow had probably restricted some current of thought, and that which would have flowed normally now shot out obliquely, perversely. It might be that the natural perverseness of his blood, unchecked by the noble influence of Stefani Gregor and liberated by the blow, governed his thoughts in relation to Kitty. The subjugation of women, the old cynical warfare of sex—the dominant business of his rich and idle forbears, the business that had made Boris Karlov a deadly and implacable enemy—became paramount in his disordered brain.
She had forgotten him! Very well. He would stir the soul of her, play with it, lift it to the stars and dash it down if she had a soul. Beautiful, natural, alone. He became all Latin under the pressure of this idea.
"I will play for you," he said, quietly.
"Please! And then I'll go home where I belong. I'll be in the living room."
When he returned he found her before a window, staring at the myriad lights.
"Sit here," he said, indicating the divan. "I shall stand and walk about as I play."
Kitty sat down, touching the pillows, reflectively.
