Then her eyes flashed. Horrible details recurred to her. "You've been quizzing my friend Kent, I perceive, in your Burlington Gate. Not up here, I think. ‘I disgust you, eh? Very well, then. E. Where else could she go?’ ‘And there aren’t too many of them around,’ agreed Hilary on a gloomy note. She produced from the depths of her pride the ugly investigatory note of the modern district visitor. And nearly all these things were fearfully ill-paid. He would have to sit down here in Canton and wait, perhaps for weeks. He looked just like John Wayne in a cowboy movie, his eyes narrow and squinting, except his hair was long, unruly, and jet black. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her.
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