She broke into one of Chopin’s preludes and continued to watch him furtively. His pallor turned a sickly gray. Small beads of moisture stood out upon his forehead. The clenched hands, the twisted lips, made Anne feel like an executioner. But still she continued playing. And as she had hoped, the ruse proved successful.
After a few minutes, the nervous hands relaxed. A smile loosened the tension of his lips. For a while he listened in seeming content. Then evidently he could contain himself no longer. Still pale, but no longer in agony, he was obviously in the throes of a new and more vital emotion.
With an awakened, exultant expression, he sprang out of the chair and striding over behind her, swept her off the piano stool and into the armchair.
“Very good indeed!” he cried with unconscious condescension. “But let me show you how it ought to be done.”
He gave the stool a professional twist or two, and sat down and commenced to play. Slightly crestfallen, Anne composed herself to listen.
He took up the prelude where she had left off.
She had not known that he had it in him. Acknowledged master of the violin, he was a pianist of undoubted technique and power as well. A month ago, such a performance from a mere boy would have racked and humiliated, but now it was sheer, unadulterated, pleasure.
“Why didn’t you tell me you could play the piano like that?” she exclaimed almost peevishly.
He wheeled about on the piano-stool and smiled at her rather sheepishly.
“I can’t,” he said simply. “It is merely a side issue, a relaxation.”