"It is curious how a tiny knock will sometimes draw as much blood as a sword-thrust. There! The Infant is in perfect tune, so far as I can tell without the bow. Do you mind if I just pass the bow across the strings? After each string is perfectly tuned to a piano or organ, you must make them vibrate together in order to get the fifths perfect. A violin or a 'cello is capable of a more complete condition of intuneness—if I may coin a word—than an organ or a piano."
He took up the bow, then with careful precision sounded the strings, singly and together. The beautiful open notes of the Infant of Prague, filled the room.
"There," said Aubrey, putting it back against the empty chair. "I am afraid that is all I must attempt. I only play the fiddle. I might disappoint you in your Infant if I did more than sound the open strings."
Ronald passed his hand over his forehead. "When did I fall asleep?" he asked.
"Just after suggesting that we should not discuss your books or your public."
"Ah, I remember! Treherne, I have had the most vivid and horrid nightmares."
"Then forget them," put in Aubrey, quickly. "Never recount a nightmare, when it is over. You suffer all its horrors again, in the telling. Turn your thoughts to something pleasant. When do you reach England?"
"I cross by the Hook, the day after to-morrow, reaching London early the following morning. I shall go to my club, see my publisher, lunch in town, and get down home to tea."
"To the moated Grange?" inquired Aubrey.
"Yes, to the Grange. Helen will await me there. But why do you call it 'moated'? We do not boast a moat."