Ronnie’s pleasure and enthusiasm were easily rekindled.

“Do,” he said.  “I am grateful.  I do not even know the required notes.”

Aubrey, leaning forward, carefully lifted the instrument, resting it against his knees.  He took a tuning-fork from his pocket.

“It is tuned in fifths,” he said.  “The open strings are A, D, G, C. You can remember them, because they stand for ’Allowable Delights Grow Commonplace’; or, read the other way up:  ‘Courage Gains Desired Aims.’”

With practised skill he rapidly tightened the four strings into harmony; then, after carefully rosining the bow, rasped it with uncertain touch across them.  The Infant squealed, as if in dire pain.  Ronnie winced, obviously restraining himself with an effort from snatching his precious ’cello out of Aubrey’s hands.

It did not strike him as peculiar that a man who played the violin with ease, should not be able to draw a clear tone from the open strings of a ’cello.

“I don’t seem to make much of it,” said Aubrey.  “The ’cello is a difficult instrument to play, and requires long practice.”  And again he rasped the bow across the strings.

The Infant’s wail of anguish gained in volume.

Ronnie sprang up, holding out eager hands.  “Let me try,” he said.  “It must be able to make a better sound than that!”

As he placed the ’cello between his knees, a look of rapt content came into his face.  He slipped his left hand up and down the neck, letting his fingers glide gently along the strings.

Aubrey watched him narrowly.

Ronnie lifted the bow; then he paused.  A sudden remembrance seemed to arrest the action in mid-air.

He laid his left hand firmly on the shoulder of the Infant, out of reach of the tempting strings.

“I am not going to play,” he said.  “The very first time I really play, must be in the studio, and Helen must be there.  But I will just sound the open strings.”

He looked down upon the ’cello and waited, the light of expectation brightening in his face.

Aubrey Treherne noted the remarkable correctness of the position he had unconsciously assumed.

Then Ronnie, raising the bow, drew it, with unfaltering touch, across the silver depths of lower C.

A rich, full note, rising, falling, vibrating, filled the room.  The Infant of Prague was singing.  A master-hand had waked its voice once more.

Ronnie’s head swam.  A hot mist was before his eyes.  His breath came in short sobs.  He had completely forgotten the sardonic face of his wife’s cousin, in the chair opposite.

Then the hot mist cleared.  He raised the bow once more, and drew it across G.

G merged into D without a pause.  Then, with a strong triumphant sweep, he sounded A.

The four open strings of the ’cello had given forth their full sweetness and power.

“Helen, oh, Helen!” said Ronnie.