"Play me something." She turned from me and explored the rack of music rolls, became interested and took a piece, the first part of the Kreutzer Sonata, hesitated. "No," she said, "that!"
She gave me Brahm's Second Concerto, Op. 58, and curled up on the sofa watching me as I set myself slowly to play. . . .
"I say," she said when I had done, "that's fine. I didn't know those things could play like that. I'm all astir. . . ."
She came and stood over me, looking at me. "I'm going to have a concert," she said abruptly, and laughed uneasily and hovered at the pigeon-holes. "Now—now what shall I have?" She chose more of Brahms. Then we came to the Kreutzer Sonata. It is queer how Tolstoy has loaded that with suggestions, debauched it, made it a scandalous and intimate symbol. When I had played the first part of that, she came up to the pianola and hesitated over me. I sat stiffly—waiting.
Suddenly she seized my downcast head and kissed my hair. She caught at my face between her hands and kissed my lips. I put my arms about her and we kissed together. I sprang to my feet and clasped her.
"Beatrice," I said. "Beatrice!"
"My dear," she whispered, nearly breathless, with her arms about me. "Oh! my dear!"
Love, like everything else in this immense process of social disorganization in which we live, is a thing adrift, a fruitless thing broken away from its connexions. I tell of this love affair here because of its