Dinny, with crinkled eyebrows, did not like to move. He paused and smiled at her with a sort of winey sweetness.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he said. “I see, I see.”

What did he see? The nervousness of the victim seized her suddenly, and she pressed her open hands together.

“Raise the hands, Miss Cherrell. No! Too Madonnaish. We must think of the devil in the hair. The eyes to me, full.”

“Glad?” asked Dinny.

“Not too glad; just—Yes, an English eye; candid but reserved. Now the turn of the neck. Ah! A leetle tilt. Ye—es. Almost stag-like; almost—a touch of the—not startled—no, of the aloof.”

He again began to draw and write with a sort of remoteness, as if he were a long way off.

And Dinny thought: ‘If Uncle Lawrence wants self-consciousness he’ll get it all right.’

The ‘young man’ stopped and stood back, his head very much on one side, so that all his attention seemed to come out of his eyeglass.

“The expression,” he muttered.

“I expect,” said Dinny, “you want an unemployed look.”

“Naughty!” said the ‘young man’: “Deeper. Could I play that piano for a minute?”

“Of course. But I’m afraid it’s not been played on lately.”

“It will serve.” He sat down, opened the piano, blew on the keys, and began playing. He played strongly, softly, well. Dinny stood in the curve of the piano, listening, and speedily entranced. It was obviously Bach, but she did not know what. An endearing, cool, and lovely tune, coming over and over and over, monotonous, yet moving as only Bach could be.

“What is it?”

“A Chorale of Bach, set by a pianist.” And the ‘young man’ nodded his eyeglass towards the keys.

“Glorious! Your ears on heaven and your feet in flowery fields,” murmured Dinny.

The ‘young man’ closed the piano and stood up.

“That’s what I want, that’s what I want, young lady!”

“Oh!” said Dinny. “Is that all?”