not help feeling that there were unreasoning and unreasonable activities
going on in Alexander all the while; that even after dinner, when most
men achieve a decent impersonality, Bartley had merely closed the door
of the engine-room and come up for an airing. The machinery itself was
still pounding on.

Bartley's abstraction and Wilson's reflections were cut short by a
rustle at the door, and almost before they could rise Mrs. Alexander was
standing by the hearth. Alexander brought a chair for her, but she shook
her head.

"No, dear, thank you. I only came in to see whether you and Professor
Wilson were quite comfortable. I am going down to the music-room."

"Why not practice here? Wilson and I are growing very dull. We are tired
of talk."

"Yes, I beg you, Mrs. Alexander," Wilson began, but he got no further.

"Why, certainly, if you won't find me too noisy. I am working on the
Schumann `Carnival,' and, though I don't practice a great many hours,
I am very methodical," Mrs. Alexander explained, as she crossed to an
upright piano that stood at the back of the room, near the windows.

Wilson followed, and, having seen her seated, dropped into a chair
behind her. She played brilliantly and with great musical feeling.
Wilson could not imagine her permitting herself to do anything badly,
but he was surprised at the cleanness of her execution. He wondered how
a woman with so many duties had managed to keep herself up to a standard
really professional. It must take a great deal of time, certainly, and