“Yes,” thought Ethel, “I’m going to like him.”

“Joe could talk of his plans all night,” Dwight went on good-naturedly.  “And keep a poor lazy musician like me from my piano where I belonged.”

“Was it you who taught him to play?” she asked.

“On the piano?  It was,” he replied.  “Isn’t his touch amazing?  And so thoroughly Christian, too.”

“Christian?”

“Yes.  He doesn’t let his right hand know what his left hand is doing.”  They laughed.  And from that laugh she emerged with eagerness in her brown eyes.

“Oh, please go on,” she begged him.  “I had no idea you knew him so well.  Did he do nothing but talk over there?”

“He did—­he worked like a tiger.  Joe could stand more hard labour in one consecutive day and night than any fellow I ever met.  And he could do it night after night.  I remember dropping in on him for coffee and rolls one morning.  A chap named Crothers and myself—­” Ethel started at the name—­“had just come home from the ‘Quatres Arts Ball.’  We found Joe in his room with the curtains drawn—­he didn’t know it was morning yet.  He had a towel bound round his head and was building an opera house for Chicago—­or Kansas City—­I’m not sure which.  And he wasn’t just dreaming of building it in his successful middle age—­he was building it now, in a terrible rush, as though Kansas City were pushing him hard.  Joe didn’t live in the future, you see—­he took the future and made it the present, and then lived in the present like mad.”

Dwight tossed away his cigarette.

“But you say it’s money now.”

“Yes,” she replied.  “It’s money.”  He smiled at her dejected tone.

“I wouldn’t be so sad,” he remarked.  “Money isn’t as bad as it seems.”

“Oh, yes, and I want it,” Ethel declared.  “But I want the others so much more!”

When her car had come, she rose and said, “You and Joe must get together some time.  Couldn’t you call him up some day and get him to lunch with you?”

“Gladly.”  They went to the door.

“But don’t be disappointed,” she said, “if you find him changed even more than you think.  Money has such a pull on a man.”

“I know, but I rather like it.”

“What?”

“Oh, don’t be so indignant, please.  I am an artist—­honestly.  But some of these men I’ve met over here—­well, they fascinate me.  Such boundless energy and drive ought to go into a symphony.  Plenty of drums and crashing brass.  Good-bye, Mrs. Lanier,” he added.  “This has been a lucky day for me.”

“Thank you.  Don’t forget about Joe.  And meanwhile—­till next Tuesday.”

As she settled back in her car she thought,

“All right, Ethel, very good.”

Twice a week, that autumn, she went to Dwight for lessons.  But until some time had passed, she did not mention it to Joe.

“When you meet him,” she said to Dwight, “I’d rather you wouldn’t speak of my lessons.  I want my singing to be a surprise.  And besides, I’d so much rather that any old friends of my husband’s come to him through his partner.  It seems so much more natural.”