As he neared the landing, there sounded the shrill squeak of a violin and a 'cello's deep harmonic growl.

His hostess, small, slender, fair, and not yet forty, a jewel-flash upon her throat and in the tiara above her smooth low forehead, took a step forward to greet him.
'Really?
How delightful! I shot at a venture, and it was a hit after all!' 'They are just beginning ?' 'The quartet--yes.

Herr Wilenski has promised to play afterwards.' He moved on, crossed a small drawing-room, entered the larger room sacred to music, and reached a seat in the nick of time.

Miss Frothingham, the violin against her shoulder, was casting a final glance at the assembly, the glance which could convey a noble severity when it did not forthwith impose silence.

A moment's perfect stillness, and the quartet began.