In the next room two Chemist’s assistants had erected a veiled tablet. Sztaviarsky played some kind of march on the piano. The guests stood in a semi-circle. Ferdinand Müller unveiled the mysterious tablet. A murmur of rapture rose:
“What a charming, kind thought....”
Tears came to the eyes of the chemist. The admirers of his family and the employees of his shop had surprised him with a new sign-board. There shone the two gilt dates. Between them a century. Underneath, a big white head of Æsculapius, bearing the features of Ferdinand Müller, the chemist. Nothing was wanting; there were his side whiskers and the wart on his left cheek. Only his spectacles had been omitted.
Anne and Adam Warner looked at each other.
They felt an irresistible desire to laugh and in this sympathy they became friends over the heads of the crowd.
Sztaviarsky played his march at an ever-increasing speed. The crinolines began to whirl round. Wheels of airy, frilly tarlatan, pink, yellow, blue. Dancing had begun round the piano.
For a brief moment Sophie found herself pressed against the wall near John Hubert. She raised her big, soft eyes to his, as if to ask him a question. But she found something cold, final, in John Hubert’s looks. The girl turned away. Her eyes fell on Christopher.
It seemed to the handsome tall boy that Sophie stroked his face across the room. He looked at her sharply. The girl seemed again heartlessly indifferent. Tired, Christopher went into the next room. There some old gentlemen and bonnetted ladies were playing l’hombre round a green table. He went through Mr. Müller’s study. Then came a quiet little room. Nobody was in it. The light of a white-shaded paraffin lamp was reflected in a mirror. He threw himself into an easy chair and buried his face in his hands. The sound of the piano knocked sharply against his brain. At first this caused him pain. Then he remembered that the sounds of this valse reached Sophie too. They touched her hair, her lips, her bosom. They had invaded her. It was from her that they came still, a swaying, treble rhythm which mysteriously embraced the rhythm of love. They came from her and brought something of her own self with them.
Christopher leaned his head forward as if attempting to touch the sound with his lips to kiss it. Yes, it was swaying music like that he felt in his endless dreams. Similar rhythmical pangs wrought in him when he imagined that Sophie would come to him at night, offering her love. He hears her steps. Her breath is warm. Her bosom heaves and whenever it rises, it touches his face.
“Little Chris....” Just like olden times. Just the same. “Now I am dreaming. I must not breathe, or all will be over.” And in his imagination she caressed him again.