She stopped in the middle of a
phrase from a Mendelssohn song, and even to his prejudiced ears her
touch had seemed commonplace. Yet he loved her all the more despite her
flat refusal to play. The temptation to his excited artistic temperament
was removed. He played, often, gloriously. His nerves were steel. This
was a cure his doctor had not foreseen. What did it matter, anyhow?--he
was near Constantia daily, and the sunshine was royal. Only--why did her
relatives absent themselves so obstinately! She told him, with her
secret smile, that she had scolded them for talking so much; but when he
played they were never far away, she assured him. Nor was the Japanese
woman, Cilli--what a name! A nickname given by Constantia in her
babyhood. Cilli was a good soul. He hoped so--her goodness was not
apparent. She had a sneering expression as he played. He never looked up
from the keyboard that he did not encounter her ironical gaze. She was
undoubtedly interested. Her intensity of pose proved it; but there was
no sympathy in her eyes. And she had a habit of suddenly appearing in
door or window, and always behind her mistress.
Pages:
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368