They did not see him again for many days, and when he came, very briefly, speaking of business technicalities which absorbed him, he was noticeably absent and careworn.  He looked much older.  The gray in his thick hair had increased.  He looked very beautiful and austere to Sylvia.  They exchanged no more than the salutations of arrival and farewell.

Then one day, as she and Aunt Victoria and Austin Page strolled down the long gallery of the Louvre, they came upon him, looking at the Ribera Entombment.  He joined them, walking with them through the Salon Carre and out to the Winged Victory, calling Sylvia’s attention to the Botticelli frescoes beyond on the landing.  “It’s the first time I’ve been here,” he told them, his only allusion to what lay back of him.  “It is like coming back to true friends.  Blessed be all true friends.”  He shook hands with them, and went away down the great stairway, a splendid figure of dignity and grace.

After this he came once and again to the apartment of the Rue de Presbourg, generally it would appear to use the piano.  He had none in his own tiny pied-a-terre and he missed it.  Sylvia immensely liked his continuing to cling for a time to the simple arrangements of his frugal bachelor days.  He could now of course have bought a thousand pianos.  They understood how he would miss his music, and stole in quietly when, upon opening the door, Tojiko told them that Mr. Morrison had come in, and they heard from the salon his delicately firm touch on the keys.  Sometimes they listened from their rooms, sometimes the two women took possession of the little octagonal room off the salon, all white paneling and gilt chairs, and listened there; sometimes, as the weeks went on and an especially early spring began to envelop Paris in a haze of sunshine and budding leaves, they stepped out to listen on the wrought-iron balcony which looked down the long, shining vista of the tree-framed avenue.  For the most part he played Bach, grave, courageous, formal, great-hearted music.

Sometimes he went away with no more than a nod and a smile to them, but more and more, when he had finished, he came out where they were, and stood or sat to exchange brief impressions on the enchanting season, or on some social or aesthetic treat which “ces dames” had been enjoying.  Austin Page was frequently with them, as in the earlier part of the winter, and it was finally he himself who one day took the step of asking Morrison if he would not go with them to the Louvre.  “No one could appreciate more than Miss Marshall what has always been such a delight to us all.”