“You see”—she went on, dashing tears away—“it is not his work—his playing! It can’t do anything—can it, for his poor starved self?”
Falloden said nothing. But she knew that he felt with her. Their scheme seemed to be lying in ruins; they were almost ashamed of it.
Then from the further room there came to their ears a prelude of Chopin, played surely by more than mortal fingers—like the rustling of summer trees, under a summer wind. And suddenly they heard Otto’s laugh—a sound of delight.
Connie sprang up—her face transformed.
“Did you hear that? We have—we have—given him pleasure!”
“Yes—for an hour,” said Falloden hoarsely. Then he added—“The doctors say he ought to go south.”.
“Of course he ought!” Connie was pacing up and down, her hands behind her, her eyes on the ground. “Can’t Mr. Sorell take him?”
“He could take him out, but he couldn’t stay. The college can’t spare him. He feels his first duty is to the college?”
“And you?” She raised her eyes timidly.
“What good should I be alone?” he said, with difficulty. “I’m a pretty sort of a nurse!”