In the next flat someone began to play very brilliantly a Hungarian Rhapsody of Liszt's. And even the faint sound of that riotous torrent of melody, so arrogantly gorgeous, intoxicated her soul. She shivered under the sudden vision of the splendid joy of being alive. And how she envied the player! French she had learned from 'Madame,' but she had no skill on the piano; it was her one regret.
She touched the bell.
'Has your master come in yet?' she inquired of the maid.
'No, madam, not yet.'
She knew he had not come in, but she could not resist the impulse to ask.
Ten minutes later, when the piano had ceased, she jumped up, and, creeping to the front-door of the flat, gazed foolishly across the corridor at the grille of the lift. She heard the lift in travail. It appeared and passed out of sight above. No, he had not come! Glancing aside, she saw the tall slender figure of a girl in a green tea-gown—a mere girl: it was the player of the Hungarian Rhapsody. And this girl, too, she thought, was expectant and disappointed! They shut their doors simultaneously, she and May, who also had her girlish moments. Then the rhapsody recommenced.
'Oh, madam!' screamed the maid, almost tumbling into the boudoir.
'What is it?' May demanded with false calm.
The maid lifted the corner of her black apron to her eyes, as though she had been a stage soubrette in trouble.
'The master, madam! He's fell out of his cab—just in front of the mansions—and they're bringing him in—such blood I never did see!'