"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Listening."
"Music! A violin. Oh, I know. It's a visitor at the Eastmans', next door. He's good. And how flawless of him to be playing just now. Open the window. Let's hear it all."
He obeyed. She drew in to him. Her ready fingers sought his palm.
"Want me to mix you a drink?"
"No, dear."
"That's better," she approved. "Though," she added, with her old air of gaminerie, "it might go further and not get a call-down. What is it he's playing?"
"'The Élégie.'"
The violin was sobbing, panting, pleading like a woman in sweet distress. The wind swept the notes to them until the whole room was surcharged with the passion and grief of it.