Harold MacGrath

“ Sonia brushed past Mallory to the piano and began to play. Mallory did not understand women, but he did understand music, every nuance; and it came to him, with a queer thrill, that Sonia was telling him something that she dared not utter vocally. There was a tragic note in everything she played; even Miss Challoner recognized this fact. ”

“ AFTER the detective was gone, Mallory resurrected an old fishing-suit, a cap to match, and wore them forth into the night. He hadn't the least notion what he was going to do; he was conscious of little besides a boiling rage which a long walk did not serve to cool. One phase became clear: Sonia had not told her uncle that she had not been alone with him in the studio..... The damned filthy hound! Men like that in this world! ”

“ But an amazing phenomenon took place the moment he returned to his studio. He found himself alone with Sonia: for to think of another is to be with that other. He had to admit that he was excited, intrigued. That mazurka—he had played it a thousand times! And she had given it a new accent. He got his hat and coat and went out for a long walk in the fading daylight.
Lonely; he was lonely, terribly lonely. Perhaps he had made an ass of himself over his hand. But he knew that he would not make an ass of himself over this strange Polish girl.
MALLORY'S sister did not know what to think. ”

“ Mallory held a folded newspaper in his right hand, and with this he tapped the piano against which he leaned. His left hand was hidden in the pocket of his velvet lounging-jacket.
“It isn't as if you'd always been like this,” went on Mrs. Carnovan. “Before the war, something was always going on in the studio here.” She waved her hand indirectly toward the paintings and sketches against the tapestried walls. “You are a great painter, Geordie. You are a great musician too. God gave you about everything—genius, money, good looks.” ”

“ I imagine I'll have a lot of fun playing chaperon. I'll cuddle up in a shadowy corner and 'ahem' at the proper time.” Miss Challoner laughed. “Tell me exactly what you want. I'm old enough to be your mother—and I wish I were.”
“I want a woman to play the piano after I've quit work. I don't want to talk to her; I don't even want to know her name. I don't want any credentials. I want music.”
When he was gone back to his studio, Miss Challoner approached her window and looked out. She smiled, perhaps a little sadly. Spring—it was spring outside. Year in and year out, she felt the spring. ”

“ Still, she had a notion to get rid of the girl by exciting her brother's interest in another direction.
“Geordie, she is really an artist. There's something wrong. She ought to be on the concert stage. Why not use your influence?”
“I've got that in mind,” Mallory replied. “You see, Puss, there are lots of men and women who play beautifully, but cannot face an audience. This girl may be one of those unfortunates. So one of these days I'll fill the studio and see how she carries on.”
His sister sighed relievedly. But Miss Challoner smiled; she knew all about spring. ”

“ Did he wish the unknown woman beautiful and young? For the life of him, he could not say. He did want music, the kind of music he loved; he was sure on this point. If the woman turned out to be agreeable to the eye, so much the better.
Later, he found himself wrangling with Miss Challoner about the wording of the advertisement.
“If you put an advertisement in the papers that you wanted a model, it would not stir a ripple of curiosity,” said Miss Challoner. “But to want a lady pianist from four till five, three times the week, with just the street and door-number—no; that wont do.” ”

“ She understood that argument would be in vain: her brother had set his heart upon this adventure, come ill or good. After all, the conventional side was negligible; her distress was enlivened by the fear that he might be hurt again. ”

“ Her uncle takes her home.”
“What kind of a man is he?”
The detective fiddled with a spoon for a moment. “Queer thing, there. But I'll come to that as I go on with my report. I went to the girl one night, during intermission, and bluffed some facts out of her. Her uncle was out of the way. Well, her father was first violin in Cracow; her mother was the daughter of an English clergyman. Runaway match, I imagine. The mother died when Sonia was about fourteen; the father died two years ago.”
MALLORY got out his pipe. Over in the corner there, he saw Sonia's face above the roses. ”