The curtains of a window were drawn aside, and the moonlight swept grandly in. It passed over a part of the piano, bathed the professor's head in soft radiance, fell upon the carpet, and touched the base of the opposite wall. Upon a sofa, half in light, half in shadow, reclined Schaaf, who had fallen asleep listening while the professor played.
The professor's face was uplifted and calm. Rapture and pain—so often mutual companions—were depicted upon it. I hesitated to break the spell which he had woven for himself. After watching for some seconds, however, I began quietly:
“Professor.”
The tune broke off with a jangling discord, and the player turned to face me, smiling pleasantly.
“Pardon me,” I went on, advancing into the room and standing in the moonshine that he might recognize me, “but I was attracted by the air you were playing. They tell me that it isn't Millocker's, but was composed by your new conductor at the ——”
The professor answered with a laugh:
“Ja! He got de honour of it. Honour is sheap. He buy dat. It doesn't matter.”
“Ah, then it isn't his own. And he bought the tune? From whom?”
“Me.”
“You?”