"Improvisation," with its aeolian vibrancies, its light, bright surges
of sound, sinking at the last into cradled restfulness. Without pause or
transition she passed on to Grieg; the wistful, remote appeal of the
strangely misnamed "Erotique," plaintive, solemn, and in the fulfillment
almost hymnal: the brusque pursuing minors of the wedding music, and the
diamond-shower of notes of the sun-path song, bleak, piercing, Northern
sunlight imprisoned in melody. Then, the majestic swing of Åse's
death-chant, glorious and mystical.

"Are you asleep?" asked the player, speaking through the chords.

"No," answered Io's tremulous voice. "I'm being very unhappy. I love
it!"

Bang! It was a musical detonation, followed by a volley of chords and
then a wild, swirling waltz; and Miss Van Arsdale jumped up and stood
over her guest. "There!" she said. "That's better than letting you
pamper yourself with the indulgence of unhappiness."

"But I want to be unhappy," pouted Io. "I want to be pampered."

"Naturally. You always will be, I expect, as long as there are men in
the world to do your bidding. However, I must see to supper."

So for two days Io Welland lolled and lazed and listened to Miss Van
Arsdale's music, or read, or took little walks between showers. No
further mention was made by her hostess of the circumstances of the
visit. She was a reticent woman; almost saturnine, Io decided, though
her perfect and effortless courtesy preserved her from being
antipathetic to any one beneath her own roof. How much her silence as to