He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said. Somewhere in the world would be his people, perhaps his mother; and it might soften the bitterness, of the return to consciousness if he found a woman at his bedside. That’s the fact of the matter. Say, that girl fooled me at first glance. And yet—he thought of the supper party where he had met Annabel Pellissier, the stories about her, his own few minutes’ whispered lovemaking! He was a self-contained young man, but his cheeks grew hot at the thought of the things which it had seemed quite natural to say to her then, but which he knew very well would have been instantly resented by the girl whom he had just left.
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