Kirk was really
their own, too. He leaned beside Felicia's chair, stirring his tea and
she slipped an arm about him, just to establish her right of possession.
The talk ran on the awakening of Applegate Farm, the rose-bush, lessons
in the orchard, many details of the management of this new and exciting
life, which the Maestro's quiet questioning drew unconsciously from the
eager Sturgises.
"We've been talking about nothing but ourselves, I'm afraid," Felicia
said at last, with pink cheeks. She rose to go, but Kirk pulled her
sleeve. No afternoon at the Maestro's house was complete for him without
music, it seemed, and it was to the piano that the Maestro must go;
please, please! So, through the French windows that opened to the
terrace, they entered the room which Kirk had never been able to
describe, because he had never seen it. Ken and Phil saw it now--high
and dim and quiet, with book-lined walls, and the shapes of curious and
beautiful things gleaming here and there from carved cabinet and table.
The Maestro sat down at the piano, thought for a moment, and then,
smiling, rippled into the first bars of a little air which none of his
listeners had ever before heard. Eerily it tripped and chimed and lilted
to its close, and the Maestro swung about and faced them, smiling still,
quizzically.
"What does it mean?" he asked. "I am very curious to know. Is it merely
a tune--or does it remind you of something!"
The Sturgises pondered.
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