I found John. He was quite pleased with the idea, and promised to return the pianola when he got sick of it.
So on Wednesday it went. I was not sorry, because in its silence it was far from beautiful, and we wanted another book-case badly. But on Tuesday evening—its last hours with us—I had to confess to a certain melancholy. It is sad to part with an old and well-tried friend, particularly when that friend is almost entirely responsible for your marriage. I looked at the pianola and then I said to Celia, "I must play it once again."
"Please," said Celia.
"The old masterpiece, I suppose?" I said, as I got it out.
"Do you think you ought to—now? I don't think I want to hear a charge of the Uhlans—beasts; I want a charge of our own men."
"Art," I said grandly, "knows no frontiers." I suppose this has been said by several people several times already, but for the moment both Celia and I thought it was rather clever.
So I placed the roll in the pianola, sat down and began to play….
Ah, the dear old tune….
Dash it all!
"What's happened?" said Celia, breaking a silence which had become alarming.