she could discern that by a queer gift of intuition he had comprehended
the whole inner meaning of what she had been playing. Most people
would have thought that it was a magnificent bit of composition,
particularly for so young a musician, but Mallory went deeper and knew
it to be a wonderful piece of self-revelation--the fruit of a spirit
sorely buffeted.

Almost instantaneously Nan realised that he had understood, and she was
conscious of a fierce resentment. She felt as though an unwarrantable
intrusion had been made upon her privacy, and her annoyance showed
itself in the quick compression of her mouth. She was about to slip
away under cover of the applause when Mallory laid a detaining hand
upon her arm.

"Don't go," he said. "And forgive me for understanding!"

Nan, sorely against her will, looked, up and met his eyes--eyes that
were irresistibly kind and friendly. She hesitated, still anxious to
escape.

"Please," he begged. "Don't leave me"--his lips endeavouring not to
smile--"in high dudgeon. It's always seemed such an awful thing to be
left in--like boiling oil."

Suddenly she yielded to the man's whimsical charm and sank down again
into her chair.

"That's better." He smiled and seated himself beside her. "I couldn't
help it, you know," he said quaintly. "It was you yourself who told
me."