"This is jolly good, after that grimy hole!"
Darwen looked at him with sympathy. "That's so," he agreed. He sat down at the piano. "This isn't a bad instrument," he observed, "it is stipulated that the daughter may be allowed to play on it when she likes."
"Oh; the devil!"
"Not at all." He sounded one or two notes thoughtfully, then he glided off into something slow and soothing with a tinge of melancholy in it too. He stopped and looked at Carstairs critically. "That's how you feel," he said.
"Precisely," Carstairs answered. "What is it?"
"Chopin's Nocturne."
"Never heard of it."
"No? It's not supposed to appeal to the vulgar mind," Darwen laughed.
"Well, do it again. I like it."
Darwen swung round on the stool and "did it again," and went on and on, seeming to lose himself; his long, artistic fingers moved with a graceful, loving poise across the white keys. He stopped abruptly and wheeled round. "How's that?" he asked.