” “And leave you here alone?” he asked, in a hoarse whisper. "I know you'll not deceive me. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. ‘Don’t lose your temper again. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. She accepted his rejoinder with a brief nod. You tonic my liver and you tonic my soul. ” “Of course,” said Capes, and threw a newly lit cigar into the fire through sheer nervousness.
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