I was forced to reseat myself, protesting silently against Tom's absurd stubbornness. I endeavored in vain to shake off a feeling of uneasiness that was creeping over me, a sensation that was closely akin to fear of the phlegmatic man who sat before me motionless and calm, pursuing a course of study that had been inspired by a most untenable supposition. What had Chopin to do with the matter? What difference could it make to Tom whether the latter had been one kind of man or another? It was ridiculous to assert that in Chopin's personality might be found an explanation of the curious incident that had made my musical so memorable. My prejudice against Spiritualists, Christian Scientists, Theosophists and other eccentrics had been, I had believed, shared by my husband. But there he sat at three o'clock in the morning trying to find among the biographical data before him some explanation of his recent "seizure," that must, of necessity, lean toward the occult. That a well-balanced, rather materialistic lawyer, whose mental methods were habitually logical, should suddenly begin to dabble in psychical mysteries in this way frightened me the more the longer I weighed Tom's words and actions in all their bearings. Nevertheless, I was forced to admit to myself that he had never looked saner in his life than he did at that moment, as he turned from his book again and gazed straight into my tired eyes.
"He was a very flirtatious chap, Winifred, and very fickle. Listen to this: 'Although of a peculiarly impressionable and susceptible disposition, and, as a not unnatural consequence, more or less fickle where women were concerned, Chopin's love affairs did, on more than one occasion, assume a serious aspect. He had conceived a fancy for the granddaughter of a celebrated master, and although contemplating matrimony with her, he had at the same time in his mind's eye another lady resident in Poland, his loyalty being engaged nowhere and his fickle heart concentrated on no one passion. One day, when visiting the former young lady in company with a musician who was at the time better known in Paris that he himself, she unconsciously offered a chair to his companion first. So piqued was he at what he considered a slight that he not only never called on her again, but dismissed her entirely from his thoughts.' Do you begin to see, Winifred, what a queer fellow he was? Really, I'm inclined to think----"
I was standing erect, gazing at him, angrily.
"If you are joking, Tom," I exclaimed, having lost all patience, "I think you are displaying most wretched taste. If you are really in earnest, I am very sorry for you. I'm going to bed. I hope I'll find you fully recovered at breakfast."
He did not seem to be at all impressed by my exhibition of temper.
"Wait just a moment, Winifred," he suggested, his eyes fixed on his book. "Here it is about George Sand--their first meeting, you know. Wait! I'll read it to you."
"I shall not wait, Tom Remsen," I cried. "Chopin's love affairs are nothing to me--and they should be nothing to you. Good night. This is my last word. Good night."
As I reached the door, I glanced over my shoulder. Tom seemed to have forgotten my existence. He had plunged again into the dust-heap of an old scandal that seemed to fascinate him--Tom Remsen, who had hitherto always deprecated and avoided that kind of research.
CHAPTER IV.
SIGNORINA MOLATTI.