"Not fit for a parlour yet," she
thought. "Ought to be in the nursery on a bread and milk diet and put to
bed at six."
For her part, Isabel dimly discerned that she had said something
awkward, and felt vaguely uncomfortable. She was sorry if she had made a
social mistake and determined to apologise afterward, though she
disliked apologies.
Allison was playing again, differently, yet in the same way. Through the
violin sounded the same high call to Rose. Life assumed a new breadth
and value, as from a newly discovered dimension. She had been in it, yet
not of it, until now. She was merged insensibly with something vast and
universal, finite yet infinite, unknown and undreamed-of an hour ago.
She was quite pale when they finished. "You're tired," he said. "I'm
sorry."
"I'm not," she denied, vigorously.
"But you are," he insisted. "Don't you suppose I can see?" His eyes met
hers for the moment, clearly, and, once more, she answered an unspoken
summons in some silent way. The room turned slowly before her; their
faces became white spots in a mist.
"You play well," Allison was saying.
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