But, on this their last evening together, the piano stood unheeded.  They seemed only to want two chairs, and each other.

She could hardly take her eyes from his face, remembering how many months must pass before she could see him again.  Yet it was Ronnie who made moan, and Helen who bravely comforted; turning as often as possible to earnest discussion of his plot and its possibilities.  But after a while even she went under, to the thought of the nearness of the parting.

Though it was late in April, the evenings were chilly; a fire glowed in the grate.

Presently Ronnie rose, turned off the electric light, and seated himself on the rug in the firelight, resting his head against his wife’s knees.

Silently she passed her fingers through his hair.

Something in the quality of her silence turned Ronald’s thoughts from himself to her alone.  “Helen,” he said, “I hate to be leaving you.  Shall you be very lonely?”

She could not answer.

“You are sure your good old Mademoiselle Victorine is coming to be with you?”

“Yes, dear.  She holds herself in readiness to come as soon as I feel able to send for her.  She and I lived alone together here during eighteen months, after Papa’s death.  We were very quietly happy.  I do not see why we should not be happy again.”

“What shall you do all day?”

“Well, I shall have my duties in the village and on the estate; and, for our recreation, we shall read French and German, and do plenty of music.  Mademoiselle Victorine delights in playing what she calls ’des a quatre mains,’ which consist in our both prancing vigorously upon the same piano; she steadily punishing the bass; while I fly after her, on the more lively treble.  It is good practice; it has its fascinations, and it will take the place of riding, for me.”

“Shan’t you ride, Helen?”

“No, Ronnie; not without you.”

“Will you and Mademoiselle Victorine drive your four-in-hands in here?”

“No, not in here, darling.  I don’t think I shall be able to bear to touch the piano on which you play to me.”

“I don’t play,” said Ronnie.  “I strum.”

“True, dear.  You often strum.  But sometimes you play quite wonderfully.  I wish you had been properly taught!”

“I always hated being taught anything,” said Ronald.  “I like doing things, without learning to do them.  And I know what you mean, about the times when I really play.  But, excepting when the mood is on me, I don’t care to think of those times.  I never feel really myself when it happens.  I seem to be listening to somebody else playing, and trying to remember something I have hopelessly forgotten.  It gives me a strained, uncanny feeling, Helen.”

“Does it, darling?  Then let us talk of something else.  Oh, Ronnie, you must promise me to take care of your health out in that climate!  I believe you are going at the very worst time of year.”