"No; I shall even turn the leaves for you."

"The leaves of what, --memory? I'll play by rote."

He strolled over to the piano and sat down. He struck a few random chords,
some soft, some florid, some harsh, some melting; he strung them together
and then glided into a dreamy, melodious rhythm, that faded into a
bird-like hallelujah, --swelling now into grandeur, then fainting into
sobs, then rushing into an allegro so brilliantly bewildering that when the
closing chords came like the pealing tones of an organ, Ruth drew a long
sigh with the last lingering vibrations.

"What is that?" asked Levice, looking curiously at his nephew, who, turning
on his music-chair, took up his cigar again.

"That," he replied, flecking an ash from his coat lappel, "has no name that
I know of; some people call it 'The Soul.'"

A pained sensation shot through Ruth at his words, for he had plainly been
improvising, and he must have felt what he had played.

"Here, Ruth, sing this," he continued, turning round and picking up a sheet
of music.

"What?" she asked without moving.

"'The bugle;' I like it."

Kemp looked at her expectantly. He said he had not known she sang; but