"That certainly has some class to it," "Fingerless" Fraser said,
admiringly. "Just go through the reperchure from soda to hock, will you?
I'm certainly fond of that coon clatter." And realizing that his pleasure
was genuine, she played on and on for him, to the muffled thump of his
feet, now and then feeding her curiosity with a stolen glance at the
other. She was in the midst of some syncopated measure when Boyd spoke
abruptly: "Please play something."

She understood what he meant and began really to play, realizing very soon
that at least one of her guests knew and loved music. Under her deft
fingers the instrument became a medium for musical speech. Gay roundelays,
swift, passionate Hungarian dances, bold Wagnerian strains followed in
quick succession, and the more utter her abandon the more certainly she
felt the younger man respond.

Strange to say, the warped soul of "Fingerless" Fraser likewise felt the
spell of real music, and he stilled his loose-hinged tongue. By-and-by she
began to sing, more for her own amusement than for theirs, and after
awhile her fingers strayed upon the sweet chords of Bartlett's _A
Dream_, a half-forgotten thing, the tenderness of which had lived with
her from girlhood. She heard Emerson rise, then knew he was standing at
her shoulder. Could he sing, she wondered, as he began to take up the
words of the song? Then her dream-filled eyes widened as she listened to
his voice breathing life into the beautiful words. He sang with the ease
and flexibility of an artist, his powerful baritone blending perfectly
with her contralto.

For the first time she felt the man's personality, his magnetism, as if he
had dropped his cloak and stood at her side in his true semblance. As they
finished the song she wheeled abruptly, her face flushed, her ripe lips