He approached me, and bent his head towards mine, and I glanced up through a mist and saw his eyes and the short, curly auburn locks on his forehead.

’The most beautiful things, and the most vital things, and the most lasting things,’ he said softly, ’are often mysterious and inexplicable and sudden.  And let me tell you that you do not know how lovely you are.  You do not know the magic of your voice, nor the grace of your gestures.  But time and man will teach you.  What shall I play?’

He was very close to me.

‘Bach,’ I ejaculated, pointing impatiently to the piano.

I fancied that Bach would spread peace abroad in my soul.

He resumed his place at the piano, and touched the keys.

’Another thing that makes me more sure that I am not deceiving myself to-night,’ he said, taking his fingers off the keys, but staring at the keyboard, ’is that you have not regretted coming here.  You have not called yourself a wicked woman.  You have not even accused me of taking advantage of your innocence.’

And ere I could say a word he had begun the Chromatic Fantasia, smiling faintly.

And I had hoped for peace from Bach!  I had often suspected that deep passion was concealed almost everywhere within the restraint and the apparent calm of Bach’s music, but the full force of it had not been shown to me till this glorious night.  Diaz’ playing was tenfold more impressive, more effective, more revealing in the hotel parlour than in the great hall.  The Chromatic Fantasia seemed as full of the magnificence of life as that other Fantasia which he had given an hour or so earlier.  Instead of peace I had the whirlwind; instead of tranquillity a riot; instead of the poppy an alarming potion.  The rendering was masterly to the extreme of masterliness.

When he had finished I rose and passed to the fireplace in silence; he did not stir.

‘Do you always play like that?’ I asked at length.

‘No,’ he said; ’only when you are there.  I have never played the Chopin Fantasia as I played it to-night.  The Chopin was all right; but do not be under any illusion:  what you have just heard is Bach played by a Chopin player.’

Then he left the piano and went to the small table where the glasses were.

‘You must be in need of refreshment,’ he whispered gaily.  ’Nothing is more exhausting than listening to the finest music.’

‘It is you who ought to be tired,’ I replied; ’after that long concert, to be playing now.’

‘I have the physique of a camel,’ he said.  ’I am never tired so long as I am sure of my listeners.  I would play for you till breakfast to-morrow.’

The decanter contained a fluid of a pleasant green tint.  He poured very carefully this fluid to the depth of half an inch in one glass and three-quarters of an inch in another glass.  Then he filled both glasses to the brim with water, accomplishing the feat with infinite pains and enjoyment, as though it had been part of a ritual.