“She cannot be aware,” he continued, “that she is making herself conspicuous. ‘I believe that. Yesterday this glorious creature had loved him; to-day she was only friendly. Flowers, theatre boxes, carriages, the “open sesame” to the whole world of pleasure. They were those of the Irish watchman. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. “You needn’t be worried,” she said quietly.
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