The sight of himself and the Infant thus waiting together, gave him peculiar pleasure.
The fire burned low.
His reflected figure dimmed and faded. A misty shadow hid it from his eyes. He could just see the shining of the silver strings, and the white line of his linen cuff.
Then suddenly, he forgot all else save that which he had been trying to remember.
He felt a strong tremor in his left wrist. He was gripping the neck of the 'cello. The strings were biting deep into the flesh of his finger-tips.
He raised the bow and swept it across the strings.
Low throbbing music filled the studio, and a great delight flooded Ronnie's soul.
He dared not give conscious thought to that which he was doing; he could only go on doing it.
He knew that he—he himself—was at last playing his own 'cello. Yet it seemed to him that he was merely listening, while another played.
Two logs fell together in the fire behind him.