"It might chance to be a small daughter," suggested Nan snubbily, and Roger's face fell a little. "So, meanwhile, as I haven't a baby and I _have_ a concerto, come along and listen to it."
He nodded and followed her into the West Parlour. A cheerful fire was blazing on the hearth, a big lounge chair drawn up invitingly beside it, while close at hand stood a small table with pipe, tobacco pouch, and matches lying on it in readiness.
"What a thoughtful child it's becoming!" he commented, taking up his pipe.
"Well, you can listen to music much better if you're really comfy," said Nan. "Sit down and light your pipe--there, I'll light it for you when you've finished squashing the 'baccy down into it."
Roger dropped leisurely into the big chair, filled and lit his pipe, and when it was drawing well, stretched out his legs to the logs' warm glow with a sigh of contentment.
"Now, fire away, sweetheart," he said. "I'm all attention."
She looked across at him, feeling for the first time a little anxious and uncertain of the success of her plan.
"Of course, it'll sound very bald--just played on the piano," she explained carefully. "You'll have to try and imagine the difference the orchestral part makes."
Switching off the lights, so that nothing but the flickering glow of the fire illumined the room, she began to play.
For half an hour she played on, lost to all thoughts of the world around her, wrapped in the melody and meaning of the music. Then, as the _finale_ rushed in a torrent of golden chords to its climax and the last note was struck, her hands fell away from the piano and she sank back on her seat with a little sigh of exhaustion and happiness.
A pause followed. How well she remembered listening for that pause when she played, in public!--The brief, pulsating silence which falls while the thought of the audience steal back from the fairyland whither they have wandered and readjust themselves reluctantly to the things of daily life. And then, the outburst of applause.
In silence she awaited Roger's approval, her lips just parted, her face still alight with the joy of the creator who knows that his work is good.
But the words for which she was listening did not come. . . . Instead--utter silence! . . . Wondering, half apprehensive of she knew not what, Nan twisted round on the music-seat and looked across to where Roger was sitting. The sharp, quick intake of her breath broke the silence as might a cry. Weary after his long day in the saddle, soothed by the warmth of the fire and the rhythm of the music, Roger was sleeping peacefully, his head thrown back against a cushion!