Page:Cup of Gold-1929.djvu/250

Everybody says it is very sweet and pretty.” Her fingers methodically worked at the strings.

Henry thought her hands lovely as they flew about. He forgot about the music in watching her hands. They were like little white moths, so delicate and restless. One would hesitate in touching them because handling might ruin them, and yet one wanted to stroke them. The piece was ending with loud bass notes. Now it was finished. When the last string had ceased its vibration, he observed:

“You play very—precisely, Elizabeth.”

“Oh, I play the notes as they come,” she said. “I always think the composer knew his business better than I do.”

“I know, and it is a comfort to hear you. It is nice to know that everything is to be in its place—even notes. You have eradicated a certain obnoxious freedom I have noticed in the playing of some young women. That kind is very lovable and spontaneous and human, of course, but given to carelessness in the interest of passion. Yes, as I become older, I grow to be taking satisfaction in seeing the thing I expected come about. Unsure things are distracting. Chance has not the tug on me it once had. I was a fool, Elizabeth. I went sailing and sailing looking for something—well, something that did not exist, perhaps. And now that I have lost my unnamable desires, I may not be happier, but there is more content on me.”

“That sounds wise and worldly, and a little bit cynical,” she observed.