"No, no, I've felt it was all my doing. Indirectly I drove you to it—oh, how you have weighed on me!"
"Really, I'd quite forgotten you."
He winced and gasped. "Hotel Belgravia," he called up through the trap-door.
"Very strange you should find me," she said, as they glided through the flashing London night.
"Not in the least. I knew you blindfold, so to speak. You forget how I used to stand outside the drawing-room, listening to your singing."
"Eavesdropper!" she murmured. But he struck a tender chord—all the tender chords of her twilight playing that now rose up softly and floated around her.
"Eavesdropper if you like, who heard nothing that was not beautiful. And so I hadn't to look for you. As a matter of fact, I wasn't looking but consulting my programme to know who number eleven was, when you began to sing."
"If you had looked you wouldn't have recognised me," she said, smiling.
"Probably not. The stage get-up would have blurred my memories."
She began to like him again: the oddness of it all was appealing. "Nevertheless," she said, "it is strange you should just find me to-night, for I—"