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 trusion into the scheme. Near the alcove stood the most beautiful piano Paul had ever seen—of glowing black, inlaid with metal in a pattern that corresponded with other pieces of furniture in the room. M. de Reisenach himself lifted the lid, and motioned Paul to the keyboard, then retraced his steps toward the fireplace. A footman advanced silently and wheeled the vacant arm-chair round so that the back of the imaginary woman would not be turned to the guest. For the first time since he had entered the room Paul thrilled to the uncanniness of his surroundings. He had experienced no difficulty in bowing to the chair, or in casting polite glances in its direction, but the footman's matter-of-fact attention to a non-existent mistress sent a shudder through him, and he had to make an effort to steady his nerve.

For an hour he played, gaining confidence as he went on. The old man dozed through it all. The piano responded graciously, and Paul rose to his best heights. It was as though he were desperately trying to disprove M. Sariac's frank comment: a virtuoso run to seed. And the old man dozed on till a clock warned Paul that his time was up.

He left the piano, and his host, roused by the cessation of sound, got up to meet him.

"Ah, Monsieur, I cannot tell you how much we have enjoyed your music, You will come again, will you not—often?"

Paul breathed a sigh of relief. "You are very kind, Monsieur." He turned to the arm-chair and said, with a bow, "Bonsoir, Madame." Then he shook hands with M. de Reisenach and left the room.

As the winter wore on, Paul settled patiently into his new mode of existence. With lessened vitality had come