A fire enveloped her, a fire which was strangely healing, filling her heart with warmth, blotting out the menace of the world. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves. His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. 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.
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