That was exactly what he felt, an amused comfortable curiosity.  Nothing in the least like that flash of jealousy he had felt over Novelli.  If it had occurred to him to try to explain the difference to himself and had he taken the trouble to skim off the superficial explanation,—­that Portia Stanton’s husband belonged in Paula’s world and that a tramp genius who came around to tune pianos did not,—­he might have got down to the recognition of the fact that the character Paula had sketched for him last night was a grotesque and not therefore to be taken seriously.  You could not, at least, do anything but smile over a man who sat on the floor under Paula’s piano while she played and came crawling out to express surprise that a singer should be a musician as well.

So the look of the man he found in the drawing-room stopped him rather short.  Anthony March had taken off the ill-fitting khaki blouse and the sleeves of his olive-drab uniform shirt were rolled up above the elbows.  He was sitting sidewise on the piano bench, his left hand on the keyboard, his right making imperceptible changes in the tension of one of the strings.  His implement, John’s quick eye noticed, was not the long-handled L shaped affair he had always seen tuners use but a T shaped thing that put the tuner’s hand exactly above the pin.

“It must take an immense amount of strength,” he observed, “to tune a piano with a wrench like that.”

March turned and with a pleasant sort of smile wished him a good morning.  But he finished ironing the wave out of a faulty unison before he replied to John’s remark.  He arose from the bench as he spoke.  “It does; but it is more a matter of knack really.  A great tuner named Clark taught me, and he learned it from Jonas Chickering himself.  Old Jonas wouldn’t allow any of his grand pianos to be tuned with an L head wrench.”

“My wife,” said John, “recalled you to me last night, in the effort to remedy her omission to pay you for your services yesterday.  I remember your sister’s case very distinctly.  I hope she is ...”

“She is quite well, thank you,” March said.  Oddly enough his manner stiffened a little.

John hastily produced his check.  It had struck him as possible that March might suspect him of hinting that one gratuitous service ought to offset the other.

“I hope the amount is satisfactory,” he said.

March glanced at the check and smiled.  “It’s rather more than satisfactory; I should call it handsome.  Thank you very much.”  He tucked the check into the pocket of his shirt.

“My wife’s immensely pleased over what you did to her piano.  I’m sure she will be glad to do all she can in the way of recommending you among her musical friends.”

March looked at him in consternation.  “Oh, she mustn’t do that!” he cried.  “I hope she won’t—­recommend me to any one.”