“I am off to-night,” he said. Even the stars were strangers. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. Ramage admitted the force of that. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. And then there came for both of them at least a temporary awakening. "Do you call neglecting your work, and singing flash songs nothing? Zounds! you incorrigible rascal, many a master would have taken you before a magistrate, and prayed for your solitary confinement in Bridewell for the least of these offences. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music.
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