"The cold, hard truth is this, Winifred: I never touched the keys of a piano in my life until an hour ago. I remember being drawn irresistibly to the instrument. What happened afterward I don't know. The first thing that I can recall was being hit in the head with some fool woman's bouquet. I remember saying, 'No flowers, please,' in a silly kind of way, but what it all meant I didn't know, and I don't know now. Do you?"
I sat speechless, gazing at Tom in amazement. He had never, in the twelve years of our betrothal and marriage, told me an untruth. I had often caught myself envying women whose husbands spiced the realism of domestic life with a romantic tale now and again. I know a woman who derives great intellectual enjoyment from cross-questioning her lesser half every twenty-four hours in an effort to prove that nature designed her for a clever detective. She would have drooped and died had she married Tom.
As I watched his honest face, pale now and careworn, I realized that I was confronted by two explanations of the present crisis, either one of which was inconceivable. Tom had told me a deliberate lie, or a miracle, to use an unscientific word, had been wrought through forces the existence of which I had always denied.
"No, Tom, I don't know what it means," I answered, presently. "How did you happen to choose the Chopin ballade for your début?"
I had not intended to hurt the poor fellow's feelings, but the change in his expression from weariness to wonderment filled me with remorse.
"I didn't choose anything," he muttered, reproachfully. "If I made an ass of myself, Winifred, I was not responsible. What the deuce did I do? You haven't told me--and I don't know."
By an effort of will I controlled the nervous chill that was threatening me, and said, quietly:
"Tom, you played Chopin's Ballade Number 3, Opus 47, in a way that would have satisfied Chopin himself. No performer living could have equaled your rendition. It was masterly."
Tom's mouth fell open in amazement. He closed it over a brandy-and-soda. "I can't believe it," he cried, setting down his glass and gazing at the smoke curling up from his cigar. "Why, Winifred, the thing's absurd. I never heard the--what do you call it?--in my life. And if I'd listened to it every day for a year I couldn't play it. I couldn't even whistle it."
I laughed aloud hysterically. There was a ludicrous side to the situation, despite its uncanny features.