They were on their way back home, or so she had thought. He had. He pulled on her shoulder, bringing her mouth to his in a kiss. She had treated him badly; she had hurt him and her aunt; she had done wrong by their standards, and she would never persuade them that she had done right. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. I could not hear his heart beat. "Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. .
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