There was a strip of old rose brocade in the making that set an ache in the girl's heart for the want of it. She felt the need to get dressed, sensing that his parents would be home soon. Anna turned round with a start, which was almost of guilt, the poker still in her hand. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. “He does not come here,” she exclaimed, quickly. She too at once developed an anxious interest in the street outside. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. “I don’t think I shall.
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