"Fancy his wanting you to go and study in London," said Janey. "I'm glad you refused."
"So'm I"!
"It would have been beastly losing you again, old man—we haven't had you back three months."
"Wouldn't you like to see me fill the Albert Hall?"
"Well—er—if you could really do it, it might be interesting to watch—just for once in a way. But I don't see that it would be worth breaking up the 'appy 'ome, only for that."
Nigel would have liked them to be more impressed, but they voiced his own feelings exactly.
"No—nor do I. Well, I've settled the old geyser, anyway—and now let's forget all about him."
Which they did at once.
That night Nigel had restless dreams. He dreamed he was playing to crowded audiences in great nightmare-like halls that stretched away to infinity. The circumstances were always unfavourable—sometimes he would have only one string on his violin, and sometimes he would find himself struggling with some horrible dream-begotten instrument with as many strings as a harp. Once he dreamed that all the audience got up and danced a hideous rigadoon, another time they all had the same face—a dark, florid face that leered.
Towards morning he dreamed a quieter dream. He was playing in a very large place, but he had a rational instrument, and he was playing "I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls." The melody floated all through his dreams—the same as in waking hours, and yet not quite the same—celestial, rarefied, wistful in heart and ears. He was also conscious of a presence—he knew he was near Tony Strife; he felt her close to him, and it was magic in his blood. The melody drifted on—sometimes pouring out of his violin, sometimes seeming to come from very far away.