Constance remained sitting, as though unaware of the new arrival in the room.
“That was wonderful!” she said, with a long breath, her eyes raised to Radowitz. “Now I shall go and read Polish history!”
A resonant voice said:
“Hullo—Radowitz! Good-evening, Lady Connie. Isn’t this a scandalous time to call? But I came about the ball-tickets for next Wednesday—to ask how many your aunt wants. There seems to be an unholy rush on them.”
Connie put out a careless hand.
“How do you do? We’ve been having the most divine music! Next Wednesday? Oh, yes, I remember!” And as she recovered her hand from Falloden, she drew it across her eyes, as though trying to dispel the dream in which Radowitz’s playing had wrapped her. Then the hand dropped, and she saw the drawing-room door closing on the player.
Falloden looked down upon her with a sarcastic mouth, which, however, worked nervously.
“I’m extremely sorry to bring you down to earth. I suppose he’s awfully good.”
“It’s genius,” said Connie, breathlessly—“just that—genius! I had no idea he had such a gift.” Falloden shrugged his shoulders without reply. He threw himself into a chair beside her, his knees crossed, his hands on the topmost knee, with the finger-tips lightly touching, an attitude characteristic of him. The lamp which had been brought in to light the piano shone full upon him, and Constance perceived that, in spite of his self-confident ease of bearing, he looked haggard and pale with the long strain of the schools. Her own manner relaxed.
“Have you really done?” she asked, more graciously.