He laid his left hand firmly on the shoulder of the Infant, out of reach of the tempting strings.
"I am not going to play," he said. "The very first time I really play, must be in the studio, and Helen must be there. But I will just sound the open strings."
He looked down upon the 'cello and waited, the light of expectation brightening in his face.
Aubrey Treherne noted the remarkable correctness of the position he had unconsciously assumed.
Then Ronnie, raising the bow, drew it, with unfaltering touch, across the silver depths of lower C.
A rich, full note, rising, falling, vibrating, filled the room. The Infant of Prague was singing. A master-hand had waked its voice once more.
Ronnie's head swam. A hot mist was before his eyes. His breath came in short sobs. He had completely forgotten the sardonic face of his wife's cousin, in the chair opposite.
Then the hot mist cleared. He raised the bow once more, and drew it across G.
G merged into D without a pause. Then, with a strong triumphant sweep, he sounded A.
The four open strings of the 'cello had given forth their full sweetness and power.