She thought of the tears she had wept upon them. That sinister and cynical thought! Suddenly she saw light. Her problem would have been none at all if Cutty had said he loved her. There would have been something sublime in making him happy in his twilight. He had loved and lost her mother. To pay him for that! He was right. Those twenty-odd years—his seniority—had mellowed him, filled him with deep and tender understanding. To be with him was restful; the very thought of him now was resting. No matter how much she might love a younger man he would frequently torture her by unconscious egoism; and by the time he had mellowed, the mulled wine would be cold. If only Cutty had said he loved her!
"What shall I play?"
Kitty raised her eyes in frank astonishment. Tnere was a fiercely proud expression on Hawksley's face. It was not the man, it was the artist who was angry.
"Forgive me! I was dreaming a little," she apologized with quick understanding. "I am not quite—myself."
"Neither am I. I will play something to fit your dream. But wait! When I play I am articulate, can express myself—all emotions. I am what I play—happy, sad, gay, full of the devil. I warn you. I can speak all things. I can laugh at you, weep with you, despise you, love you! All in the
