The fire burned lower. The room was nearly dark. The reflection was almost hidden.
Ronnie, straining his eyes, could see only the white line of the low square forehead.
He wished the eyes would lift and look at him, piercing the darkness of the darkening room.
Another log fell. Again flames darted upwards. Each detail in the mirror was clear once more.
The playing grew more rapid. Ronnie felt his fingers flying, yet pressing deeply as they flew.
The right foot of the figure, placed further back than the left, was slightly raised. The heel was off the floor.
Ronnie's right heel was also lifted.
Then, looking past the figure in the chair, he marked behind him, where in the reflection of the studio should have been the door, heavy black curtains hanging in sombre folds. And, even as Ronnie noticed these, they parted; and the lovely face of a woman looked in.
As Ronnie saw that face he remembered many things—things of exquisite joy, things of poignant sorrow; things inexpressible except in music, unutterable except in tone.
The 'cello sobbed, and wailed, and sang itself slowly into a minor theme; yet the passion of the minor was more subtle, sweeter far, than the triumph of the major.