We sat silent for a time, hand clasped in hand, like a youth and maiden awed by a sudden realization of the marvelous mysteries of existence.
Presently Tom spoke again, and I felt that it was a lawyer, in full control of his nerves, who questioned me. "Did I look--ah--dazed--or queer--when I went to the piano, my dear?"
"No, Tom," I answered, after a pause. "You--you--now, don't think me flippant--you looked just as you do when you're being shaved."
"Before all those people!" he gasped. "What do you mean, Winifred?"
"Your chin was up in the air, Tom, and your head was thrown back."
"But you didn't see any lather?" he asked, foolishly.
"Don't be silly, Tom," I cried, petulantly. But I had done him another injustice; he had not intended to be jocose.
"And then what did I do?" he asked, eagerly.
"And then you played that ballade with the inspiration of genius and the technique of a master."
"It stumps me!" he muttered. "Winifred, is there anything about this fellow Chopin in the library? Any books about him?"