What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. Sir Rowland witnessed these proceedings like one stupified. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. And I have made such arrangements that at my decease tardy justice will be done my injured nephew.
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