Theron stood by while all these things were being tied up together in a parcel.  The suggestion that they should be sent almost hurt him.  Oh, no, he would carry them home himself.  So strongly did they appeal to his sanguine imagination that he could not forbear hinting to the man who had shown him the pianos and was now accompanying him to the door that this package under his arm represented potentially the price of the piano he was going to have.  He did it in a roundabout way, with one of his droll, hesitating smiles.  The man did not understand at all, and Theron had not the temerity to repeat the remark.  He strode home with the precious bundle as fast as he could.

“I thought it best, after all, not to commit myself to a selection,” he explained about the piano at dinner-time.  “In such a matter as this, the opinion of an expert is everything.  I am going to have one of the principal musicians of the town go and try them all, and tell me which we ought to have.”

“And while he’s about it,” said Alice, “you might ask him to make a little list of some of the new music.  I’ve got way behind the times, being without a piano so long.  Tell him not any very difficult pieces, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” put in Theron, almost hastily, and began talking of other things.  His conversation was of the most rambling and desultory sort, because all the while the two lobes of his brain, as it were, kept up a dispute as to whether Alice ought to have been told that this “principal musician” was of her own sex.  It would certainly have been better, at the outset, he decided; but to mention it now would be to invest the fact with undue importance.  Yes, that was quite clear; only the clearer it became, from one point of view, the shadier it waxed from the other.  The problem really disturbed the young minister’s mind throughout the meal, and his abstraction became so marked at last that his wife commented upon it.

“A penny for your thoughts!” she said, with cheerful briskness.  This ancient formula of the farm-land had always rather jarred on Theron.  It presented itself now to his mind as a peculiarly aggravating banality.

“I am going to begin my book this afternoon,” he remarked impressively.  “There is a great deal to think about.”

It turned out that there was even more to think about than he had imagined.  After hours of solitary musing at his desk, or of pacing up and down before his open book-shelves, Theron found the first shadows of a May-day twilight beginning to fall upon that beautiful pile of white paper, still unstained by ink.  He saw the book he wanted to write before him, in his mental vision, much more distinctly than ever, but the idea of beginning it impetuously, and hurling it off hot and glowing week by week, had faded away like a dream.