"
"Anybody might, but few do play it as I thought I heard it played
last night. Who's the player, Miss Smith?"
"I haven't the slightest idea. Alicia thinks it's a spirit that
lives in the crape-myrtle trees."
I was beginning to be aweary of The Author's shrewd eyes and
persistent questioning, and I was heartily glad when he had to go
back to his work.
That was a gray and windless afternoon, and the house was full of
those bluish shadows that belong to gray days; it was charged, even
more than usual, with mystery: the whole atmosphere tingled with it
as with electricity. I couldn't read. I have never been able to play
upon any musical instrument, much as I love music. I do not sing,
either, except in a small-beer voice; and when I tried to sew I
pricked my fingers with the needle. I went into the kitchen,
consulted with Mary Magdalen as to the evening's dinner, weighed and
measured such ingredients as she needed, saw that the two maids were
following instructions, tried to make friends with Beautiful Dog,
until he howled with anguish and affliction and fled as from
pestilence; and, unable to endure the house any longer, put on my
hat and set out upon one of those aimless walks one takes in a land
where all walks are lovely.
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