"Here—quick!" McClintock thrust a cigar into Spurlock's hand. "Put it in your teeth and light it. I hear her coming."
Spurlock obeyed mechanically. The candle was shaking in his hand as
Ruth appeared in the doorway.
"I thought we were going to have some music," she said.
Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. And this utter stranger … loved him! He had no reason to doubt McClintock's statement; the Scot had solved the riddle why Ruth Enschede had married Howard Spurlock. All emotions laid hold of him, but none could he stay long enough to analyze it. For a space he rode the whirligig.
"We were talking shop," said McClintock, rising. Observing Spurlock's spell-bound attitude, he clapped the boy on the shoulder. "Come along! We'll start that concert right away."
In the living room Spurlock's glance was constantly drawn toward Ruth; but in fear that she might sense something wrong, he walked over to the piano and struck a few chords.
"You play?" asked McClintock, who was sorting the rolls.
"A little. This is a good piano."
"It ought to be; it cost enough to get it here," said the Scot, ruefully. "Ever play one of these machines?"
"Yes. I've always been more or less music-mad. But machinery will never approach the hand."