He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. She got up early, and walked about the garden in the dewy June sunshine and revived her childhood. She didn’t like the shops, she didn’t like the other women’s faces; she thought the smirking men in frock-coats who dominated these establishments the most intolerable persons she had ever had to face. The little girl uttered no remonstrance; but, replacing the flowers in the basket, burst into tears, and withdrew. Fame of any sort was folly and she knew better. There she sought and at last found 107A, one of those heterogeneous piles of offices which occupy the eastern side of the lane. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. It was time to leave America. And that would spoil it. I——” The door was thrown open.
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