“I know who wrote that!—­who must have written it!” said Otto, looking up.  He named a French name.  “I worked with him at the Conservatoire for a year.”

Constance nodded.

“He did it for you,” she said, her eyes full of tears.  “He said you were the best pupil he ever had.”

The door opened, and Mrs. Mulholland’s white head appeared, with Falloden and Sorell behind.

“Otto!” said Mrs. Mulholland, softly.

He understood that she called him, and he went with her in bewilderment, along the passage to the studio.

Falloden came into the sitting-room and shut the door.

“Did he like it?” he asked, in a low voice, in which there was neither pleasure nor triumph.

Connie, who was still sitting on the stool by the fire with her face turned away, looked up.

“Oh, yes, yes!” she said in a kind of desperation, wringing her hands; “but why are some pleasures worse than pain—­much worse?”

Falloden came up to her, and stood silently, his eyes on hers.

“You see”—­she went on, dashing tears away—­“it is not his work—­his playing!  It can’t do anything—­can it, for his poor starved self?”

Falloden said nothing.  But she knew that he felt with her.  Their scheme seemed to be lying in ruins; they were almost ashamed of it.

Then from the further room there came to their ears a prelude of Chopin, played surely by more than mortal fingers—­like the rustling of summer trees, under a summer wind.  And suddenly they heard Otto’s laugh—­a sound of delight.

Connie sprang up—­her face transformed.

“Did you hear that?  We have—­we have—­given him pleasure!”

“Yes—­for an hour,” said Falloden hoarsely.  Then he added—­“The doctors say he ought to go south.”.

“Of course he ought!” Connie was pacing up and down, her hands behind her, her eyes on the ground.  “Can’t Mr. Sorell take him?”

“He could take him out, but he couldn’t stay.  The college can’t spare him.  He feels his first duty is to the college?”

“And you?” She raised her eyes timidly.

“What good should I be alone?” he said, with difficulty.  “I’m a pretty sort of a nurse!”

There was a pause.  Connie trembled and flushed.  Then she moved forward, both her little hands outstretched.

“Take me with you!” she murmured under her breath.  But her eyes said more—­far more.

The next moment she was in Falloden’s arms, strained against his breast—­everything else lost and forgotten, as their lips met, in the just selfishness of passion.

Then he released her, stepping back from her, his strong face quivering.

“I was a mean wretch to let you do that!” he said, with energy.

She eyed him.

“Why?”

“Because I have no right to let you give yourself to me—­throw yourself away on me—­just because we have been doing this thing together,—­because you are sorry for Otto—­and”—­his voice dropped—­“perhaps for me.”