Page:The Yellow Book - 07.djvu/212

 A bugle was sounding at the other end of the barrack square; people passed along the pavement where the tall footman stood immovable; the innumerable windows in the row of houses gazed down unblinkingly. It all seemed to her so detached, so far away, unreal; and he the greatest unreality.

She did not look at him again, but signalled to the footman, and bent her head as the horses sprang forward. She was not to be unenvied. Her last disappointment on earth was over as she went swiftly up the Buckingham Palace Road.

For himself, he returned to his dishevelled rooms, and, teased by some vague half-misgiving, stood a few moments beside the open piano, tapping gently with his fingers on the mirror-like wood before sitting down to play.

Ah! the inexplicable incapacities of the human soul!

Yet here, under his moving hands, was music—such music; perfect expression of immortal pain, immortal love.