Subtly, Rose answered to it.  In some mysterious way, she seemed set free from bondage.  Unsuspected fetters loosened; she had a sense of largeness, of freedom which she had never known before.  She was quivering in an ecstasy of emotion when the last chord came.

For an instant there was silence, then Isabel spoke.  “How well you play!” she said politely.

“I ought to,” Allison replied, modestly.  “I’ve worked hard enough.”

“How long have you been studying?”

“Thirty years,” he answered.  “That is, I feel as if I had been at work all my life.”

“How funny!” exclaimed Isabel.  “Are you thirty?”

“Just,” he said.

“Then Cousin Rose and I are like steps, with you half way between us.  I’m twenty and she’s forty,” smiled Isabel, with childlike frankness.

Rose bit her lips, then the colour flamed into her face.  “Yes,” she said, to break an awkward pause, “I’m forty.  Old Rose,” she added, with a forced smile.

“Nonsense,” said Allison quickly.  “How can a rose be old?”

“Or,” continued the Colonel, with an air of old-world gallantry, “how can earth itself be any older, having borne so fair a rose upon its breast for forty years?”

“Thank you both,” responded Rose, her high colour receding.  “Shall we play again?”

While they were turning over the music Madame grappled with a temptation to rebuke Isabel then and there.  “Not fit for a parlour yet,” she thought.  “Ought to be in the nursery on a bread and milk diet and put to bed at six.”

For her part, Isabel dimly discerned that she had said something awkward, and felt vaguely uncomfortable.  She was sorry if she had made a social mistake and determined to apologise afterward, though she disliked apologies.

Allison was playing again, differently, yet in the same way.  Through the violin sounded the same high call to Rose.  Life assumed a new breadth and value, as from a newly discovered dimension.  She had been in it, yet not of it, until now.  She was merged insensibly with something vast and universal, finite yet infinite, unknown and undreamed-of an hour ago.

She was quite pale when they finished.  “You’re tired,” he said.  “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not,” she denied, vigorously.

“But you are,” he insisted.  “Don’t you suppose I can see?” His eyes met hers for the moment, clearly, and, once more, she answered an unspoken summons in some silent way.  The room turned slowly before her; their faces became white spots in a mist.

“You play well,” Allison was saying.  “I wish you’d let me work with you.”

“I’ll be glad to,” Rose answered, with lips that scarcely moved.

“Will you help me work up my programs for next season?”

“Indeed I will.  Don’t stop now, please—­really, I’m not tired.”

While she was still protesting, he led her away from the piano to an easy chair.  “Sit there,” he said, “and I’ll do the work.  Those accompaniments are heavy.”