As the piano stopped and the musician swung round slowly on his stool, Sally shivered at the pallor of the face and the closed eyes. She saw that tears were trickling from them.
“Miss Munt has come to see you.” There was excitement in the voice of the old lady. “You remember Miss Sally of Waterloo Villa. And to think what we’ve been reading about her in the Tribune!”
The musician sprang up with a boy’s impulsiveness. “You don’t say, Mother—you don’t say!” The eager voice had a music of its own. “Where are you, Miss Sally?” He held out his hand. “Put your hand there and then I shall believe it.”
Sally did as she was asked.
“Well, well, it’s really the great and famous you.” He seemed to caress that strong and competent paw with his delicate fingers.
She couldn’t find the courage to say anything.
But he did not allow the silence to become awkward. “Better go and look after your coupons, Mother, while Miss Sally and I talk shop.”
Upon that plain hint the old lady went away, closing the front door after her, and then the blind man helped the visitor to take off her heavy coat and put her into a chair. He found his way back to the music stool without difficulty, but in sitting down he brushed the keys of the piano with his coat sleeve.
“Your dear, good father gave me this. A wonderful improvement on the one we’ve scrapped. Did you hear me murdering Beethoven as you came in? One’s only chance now to score off the poor blighters!” His cheerfulness, his whimsical courage, were amazing to Sally. “Since last we met things have happened, haven’t they? South Kensington Tube Station, December, 1913. Æons ago.” He sighed like a child. “By the way, tell me, did you get a letter I sent to you when you did your ‘go’ of time?”
Sally had received the letter. Soft the admission and also blushing, although he could not see that.