On the rare
occasions when he brought his violin with him, the old harmony seemed
entirely gone. The pianist's fingers often stumbled over the keys even
though Allison played with new authority and that magical power that
goes by the name of "inspiration," for want of a better word.
Once she made a mistake, changing a full chord into a dissonance so
harsh and nerve-racking that Allison shuddered, then frowned. When they
had finished, he turned to her, saying, kindly: "You're tired, Rose.
I've been a selfish brute and let you work too hard."
Quick denial was on her lips, but she stopped in time and followed his
lead gracefully. "Yes, and my head aches, too. If all of you will excuse
me, I'll go up and rest for a little while."
Evening after evening, she made the same excuse, longing for her own
room, with a locked and bolted door between her and the outer world.
Lonely and miserable though she was, she had at least the sense of
shelter. Pride, too, sustained her, for, looking back to the night they
met, months ago, she could remember no word nor act, or even a look of
hers that had been out of keeping.
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