Michael gently edged Hermann away from the music-stool.  Much as he enjoyed his master’s accompaniment he was perfectly sure that he preferred, if possible, to play for Sylvia himself than have the pleasure of listening to anybody else.

“And may I play for you, Miss Sylvia?” he asked.

“Yes, will you?  Thanks, Lord Comber.”

Hermann moved away.

“And so Mr. Hermann sits down by Lady Barbara while Lord Comber plays for Miss Sylvia,” he observed, with emphasis on the titles.

A sudden amazing boldness seized Michael.

“Sylvia, then,” he said.

“All right, Michael,” answered the girl, laughing.

She came and stood on the left of the piano, slightly behind him.

“And what are we going to have?” asked Michael.

“It must be something we both know, for I’ve brought no music,” said she.

Michael began playing the introduction to the Hugo Wolff song which he had accompanied for her one Sunday night at their house.  He knew it perfectly by heart, but stumbled a little over the difficult syncopated time.  This was not done without purpose, for the next moment he felt her hand on his shoulder marking it for him.

“Yes, that’s right,” she said.  “Now you’ve got it.”  And Michael smiled sweetly at his own amazing ingenuity.

Hermann put down the Variations, which he still had in his hand, when Sylvia’s voice began.  Unaccustomed as she was to her accompanist, his trained ear told him that she was singing perfectly at ease, and was completely at home with her player.  Occasionally she gave Michael some little indication, as she had done before, but for the most part her fingers rested immobile on his shoulder, and he seemed to understand her perfectly.  Somehow this was a surprise to him; he had not known that Michael possessed that sort of second-sight that unerringly feels and translates into the keys the singer’s mood.  For himself he always had to attend most closely when he was playing for his sister, but familiar as he was with her singing, he felt that Michael divined her certainly as well as himself, and he listened to the piano more than to the voice.

“You extraordinary creature,” he said when the song was over.  “Where did you learn to accompany?”

Suddenly Michael felt an access of shyness, as if he had been surprised when he thought himself private.

“Oh, I’ve played it before for Miss—­I mean for Sylvia,” he said.

Then he turned to the girl.

“Thanks, awfully,” he said.  “And I’m greedy.  May we have one more?”

He slid into the opening bars of “Who is Sylvia?” That song, since he had heard her sing it at her recital in the summer, had grown in significance to him, even as she had.  It had seemed part of her then, but then she was a stranger.  To-night it was even more intimately part of her, and she was a friend.

Hermann strolled across to the fireplace at the end of this, and lit a cigarette.