“Do you believe in heredity?” he cried, as the father entered with the tea.  “Do you believe that your love of Chopin is inherited?  Chopin composed that wonderful slow movement of the F minor concerto because of his love for your grandmother.  How I wish I could have seen her, heard her.”

The girl, without answering him, detached from her neck a large brooch and chain.  Davos took it and amazedly compared the portrait with the living woman.

“You are Constantia Gladowska.”  She smiled.

“Her love of Chopin—­she must have loved her youthful adorer—­has been transmitted to you.  Oh, please play me that movement again, the one Rubinstein called ‘the night wind sweeping over the churchyard graves.’” Constantia blushed so deeply that he knew he had offended her.  She had for him something of the pathos of old dance music—­its stately sweetness, its measured rhythms.  After drinking a cup of tea he drifted to the instrument—­flies do not hanker after honey as strongly as do pianists in the presence of an open keyboard.  A tactful silence ensued.  He began playing, and, as if exasperated at the challenge implied by her refusal, he played in his old form.  Then he took the theme of Chopin’s E flat minor Scherzo, and he juggled with it, spun it into fine fibres of tone, dashed it down yawning and serried harmonic abysses.  He was magnificent as he put forth all the varied resources of his art.  Constantia, her cheeks ablaze, her lips parted, interposed a fan between her eyes and the light.  There was something dangerous and passionate in her regard.  In all the fury of his play he knew that he had touched her.  Once, during a pause, he heard her sigh.  As he finished in a thunderous crash he saw in the doorway the figure of the Japanese maid—­an ugly, gnarled idol with slitted eyes.  She withdrew when he arose to receive the unaffected homage of his hosts.  He was curious.  Monsieur Pelletier, who looked like a Brazilian parrot in beak and hue, cackled:—­

“That’s Cilli, our Japanese.  She was born in Germany, and is my niece’s governess.  Quite musical, too, I should say so.  Just look at my two Maltese cats!  I call them Tristan and Isolde because they make noises in the night.  Don’t you loathe Wagner?”

It was time to go.  Enamoured, Davos took his leave, promising to call the next forenoon before he went back to Ischl.  He held her fingers for a brief moment and longed to examine their tips,—­the artist still struggled to subdue the man,—­but the pressure he received was so unmistakable that he hurried away, fearing to betray his emotion.  He hovered in the vicinity of the house, longing for more music.  He was disappointed.  For a full hour he wandered through the dusty lanes in the faded light of an old moon.  When he reached his chamber, it was long past one o’clock; undaunted, his romantic fervour forced him to the window, and he watched the shining lake.  He fell asleep thinking of Constantia.  But he dreamed of Cilli, the Japanese maid with the hideous eyes.