‘Magda!’
‘What is it?’
I returned.
‘You are magnificent,’ he replied, with charming, impulsive eagerness, his eyes resting upon me long. He was the old Diaz again. ‘I can’t thank you. But when you come back I shall play to you.’
I smiled.
‘Till four o’clock,’ I said.
‘Magda,’ he called again, just as I was leaving, ‘bring one of your books with you, will you?’
I hesitated, with my hand on the door. When I gave him my name he had made no sign that it conveyed to him anything out of the ordinary. That was exactly like Diaz.
‘Have you read any of them?’ I asked loudly, without moving from the door.
‘No,’ he answered. ‘But I have heard of them.’