did an astonishing thing. She sat down on the floor and pulled her
shoes and stockings off, as unselfconsciously as if she were alone.

Then Fred began the tune again from the beginning, and he had it
at his finger-ends by then. He made the rafters ring. And without
a word Maga kicked the shoes and stockings into a corner, flung her
outer, woolen upper-garment after them, and began to dance.

There is a time when any of us does his best. Money--marriage--praise
--applause (which is totally another thing than praise, and more
like whisky in its workings)--ambition--prayer--there is a key to
the heart of each of us that can unlock the flood-tides of emotion
and carry us nolens volens to the peaks of possibility. Either Will,
or else Fred's music, or the setting, or all three unlocked her gifts
that night. She danced like a moth in a flame--a wandering woman
in the fire unquenchable that burns convention out of gipsy hearts,
and makes the patteran--the trail--the only way worth while.

Opposite, the gipsies sprawled in silence on their platform, breathing
a little deeper when deepest approval stirred them, a little more
quickly when her Muse took hold of Maga and thrilled her to expression
of the thoughts unknown to people of the dinning walls and streets.

We four leaned back against our wall in a sort of silent revelry,
Fred alone moving, making his beloved instrument charm wisely, calling
to her just enough to keep a link, as it were, through which her
imagery might appeal to ours. Some sort of mental bridge between
her tameless paganism and our twentieth-century twilight there had
to be, or we never could have sensed her meaning. The concertina's
wailings, mid-way between her intelligence and ours, served well enough.