A CHANGE OF KEY.

"And that was all," said Hargrave. "He wasn't engaged to her or to any one. They were always good friends enough, but I don't believe he's even seen her since he went away.”

"He liked her though," said Gray.

"Of course he did. He admired her with the rest of us—not so much as some, perhaps, for then our Bobby hadn't settled down," and he grinned at Martin, who was lost in contemplation of the fire and did not heed. "Every one thought as you did; but Reinhardt-well, you all know him."

He resumed his cigar and put his hands in his pockets. The three men, all in evening dress, were apparently assembled in the sanctum for a short respite from the conventional festivities in the halls beyond. Martin, their host, sat comfortably on the table; Gray stood by the fire, and Jack Hargrave wandered about the room, examining the scattered cabinets and Oriental weapons. Through the half-drawn curtains one could see the long lighted drawing-room in the wing. It was crowded with moving guests, and there was a distant sound of music.

A short silence followed Hargrave's comment, and the three puffed reflectively.

"That's what passes me," said Gray at last. "We do know him. I'm not surprised at that affair with Jean. She's too sharp for any man to care for. But look at the girls we know. Hang it, he

could cut out all

of us-yes, Hargrave, you or any one-if he

wanted to. But he doesn't seem to care."

"You can't call him indifferent," said Jack from the corner. "Of course not. He's attentive and devoted and all that-he seems born to it, and that's why they like him-most of them. He's fond of women, too-but in a general sort of way-"

"A man needn't be a Giovanni just because he's handsome." "O shut up, Hargrave! You're talking like a fool. You know what I mean-Who began this discussion, anyway? I think it's

odd that a man with Reinhardt's nature, who could win any woman that he wants-"

"And has won," prompted Hargrave, "many that he doesn't want-"

"Yes-it's odd that he doesn't want to. That's all."

"Well, perhaps it is.

He's old enough to fall in love."

More likely too old, though I know bet

"Old enough, man!

ter. He's nearly thirty.”

"A patriarch indeed!"

"I was talking of it to Tarrant the other day-”

"I'll bet you were! And what did Tarrant say?"

"O, you can't get anything out of him. He laughed, got me to make my own conjectures, and then agreed with me."

"Tarrant's another."

"That he is. I'm not sure he isn't handsomer than Reinhardt, though he doesn't work the havoc that Reinhardt does."

"O women don't give a hang for beauty," said Martin, speaking suddenly for the first time, and with his eyes still fixed reflectively upon the fire.

"Well," demanded Hargrave, "who said they did?" But Gray wheeled, exclaiming, "Don't they, though!"

"We know one woman that didn't," pursued Hargrave complacently.

Martin laughed. "That's out of your province," said he. "You stick to Reinhardt and leave me alone."

"If you've finished your little review we'll bring our argument to you. Gray here wants to know why Reinhardt doesn't marry, and we're gabbling over it like two old women. You've known him longer than we-hasn't he ever had an affair?"

"O Lord, hundreds."

"I mean," said Gray, "a serious-"

"Serious! I guess if you knew—"

"Gray means," drawled Hargrave, joining Martin on the table, "has he never been in love? Gray is a little delicate-he wants to know he feels a sister sympathy--"

"Heaven forbid," exclaimed Martin, "that I should tell you two if I knew! But I don't. I suppose not, however, because as you say, if he were he'd have got her."

"That's laconic," Hargrave murmured.

"I've not pondered it myself," continued Martin, "though it's a favorite theme of Eleanor's. Women like to speculate about such things, you know." Hargrave smiled indulgently at Gray, who shrugged his shoulders. Martin continued, "He's been a lion all his life. Women have always adored him—all but one," he laughed. "Eleanor wanted him to like Nan Hardy, and had them both at camp, but they quarreled like the deuce. She's the only girl he never could get on with."

"Well, she's the only girl that doesn't like him, that's why." "She's good-looking," observed Gray.

"Yes, but queer. Don't you think so, Bob?"

"She's my guest," said Martin.

"What, not here!"

"Why, she's in Washington," said Gray decisively.

Martin laughed. "But your leave," said he, "she's in yonder drawing-room. Haven't you seen her? She only came last night."

"Such a hanged crowd," said Hargrave, yawning. "You can't find anyone. I like it better out here, Bobby."

"I say," exclaimed Gray suddenly from the alcove, "When did you do this, Bob? It's capital!"

He was standing before a portrait study done in ink. The pose was odd and rather striking-full front, the head a little high, and the eyes lowered. The clear features and dark brows shone out from the gloomy corners with startling distinctness. It seemed to leap into light as you turned to it. Hargrave came and looked over the other's shoulder.

"Reinhardt!" he said. "By Jove, it is good. What's that?" and he read some words scribbled on the margin-for the piece was unframed, and merely caught up with a thumb tack. ""Siegfried! Ergen' sich des Siegh!" Hargrave laughed. "That's Eleanor's work, I guess. Well, it's an old prophecy to him."

"By Jove," said Gray firmly, "you can't make me believe that a man can look like that. I say, Bob, wasn't there a French girl somewhere, whom-"

"My dear boy, no. How that seems to haunt you! She was one of many. He doesn't care for anyone. So if your choice is fixed, take heart-will you hand me a match?"

Hargrave rose. "I'm going back," said he. "Come on, Bob. You haven't time for another pipe."

"Here's Tarrant now," said Gray, as a door was opened and shut in the corridor, admitting a momentary breeze of many voices, and a well-known step approached. The portières were pushed aside, and Morris Tarrant appeared. The three hailed him guiltily.

"Hullo," he said, smiling at the blue haze and drawing a long breath; "wish I'd known you were here. Come, Bob, Mrs. Bob is wild at your desertion, and sent me after you. Reinhardt's going to sing."

Martin laid his pipe tenderly on the tray. "Nothing but Reinhardt's voice," he said, "would draw me. Come on, fellows."

Gray looked back at the dimly-lighted room as they passed out. "How glaring it'll be out there," said he regretfully.

The buzz of conversation died as Reinhardt left the window and walked across the room. He was a striking study in black and white. It was not his musical reputation alone that caused all eyes to follow him, and the incessant tongues to cease. The curve of his lips, the proud pose of his head-the very fold of his white waist-coat as he bent above the keys-were distinct and commanding. He was like one of the brilliant octaves in D'Indy's "Istar."

"I never saw a man," whispered a girl to her acquaintance, "whose arms were so ornamental when he walks."

The other raised her brows with a quick gesture of indifference. They were standing in the doorway of the hall, in the bright light. At that moment, by a sudden impulse, Reinhardt looked up. Of all who were watching him, none but one saw the swift amaze

ment in his eyes-then they darkened suddenly, and he bowed. Eleanor Martin was turning over his music as he stood waiting. He spoke to her quickly.

"Thank you, you need not play for me. Never mind." He seated himself without the notes.

"Not?" said Eleanor, surprised. "We want 'Ich grolle nicht'." "No!"

It happened quietly, and in an instant. Without stopping to think, apparently, he began the prelude to Tschaikowsky's "Nur wer die sehnsucht kennt. in D flat.

Reinhardt played as he talked-easily, and with a peculiar, fascinating intonation of his own-almost casually in the whole, with the utmost subtlety and grace of detail. One felt that he had made little study of technique, yet it was the merest incident with him. The music seemed his own; indeed, he played as though he were improvising; there was a thoughtful spontaneity in his phrasing, and a certain passionate repression in his touch. The room was absolutely still. One of the girls had withdrawn; the other had stepped to a window just inside, where her face was in shadow. He could see her profile if he looked up.

Did he look up? At the end of the prelude there was a second's pause-it might have been a rest-the octave was struck with sudden resolution; then a strange, unexpected chord, a breathless modulation, and he was singing the Schumann song in C. The effect was startling and unprecedented. A slight stir of surprise ran through the room. He had shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly, and was now singing with his head tilted up, but his eyes upon the keys. Hargrave noted his resemblance to Martin's sketch.

Having decided, by apparent whim, to sing the tragedy, Reinhardt sang with abandon. His voice poured through the crowded room and deserted halls till the lights seemed to grow dim and the room heaved dizzily. But he gave the song no tenderness. It thrilled with this triumph of resignation, and the glorious strength of pain.