"Knuckles down, sir." She gave them a tap. "Wrists up. Forearms on a level with the keys. Again! One—two! One—two! One"
"I liked the other things you played, better," he joked.
"There you are!" she said. "They always want 'pieces' right away. One—two! One—two! You must perfect your technique first."
And with a stern pretence of seriousness, that trembled always on the verge of laughter, she put his clumsy fingers through their drill, in a teasing vein of coquetry that made him long to catch her hands and crush them, as one longs to catch up a frisking kitten and cuddle it fiercely.
"Now," she said, "I'll give you your first piece—'The Blue Alsatian Mountains.'"
It was at last too tantalizing to be endured, and he held her hands and said shakily, "No. Please play. Play that—'nocturne' was it?—the one you played first that night."
"This one?" She freed her fingers and began it.
"Yes."
He did not leave his seat beside her, and she wove the magic of that melody under his eyes, casting the spell of it on him as softly as a breath perfumed with the fragrance of her garments and warm with the vitality of her abundant young life. He was in the clutch of instincts which he could not understand and which he was afraid to yield to, drawn toward her by a terrible longing, but not daring to let himself go because he feared to put all his hopes to a
