WHOM THE GODS DESTROYED
see his dirty clothes drop off, and his trailing clouds of glory wrap him 'round before he vanished from our eyes. His heavy eyebrows bent together. His knees shook the piano-stool. He was labouring under an intense excitement. But I think he was pleased at our faces.
"What—what the devil does it matter to you what I'm named?" he said roughly.
"Oh, it doesn't matter at all, not at all," I said meekly; "only we wanted, we wanted" And then, like that chit of seventeen, I cried, too. I am such a fool about music.
"Now you know what I mean when I say I can play," he growled savagely. He seemed really terribly excited, even angry. "I'll play one thing more. Then you go home. When I think o' what I might have done, great God, I can't die till I've shown 'em! Can I? Can I die? You hear me! You see"—his face was livid. His eyes gleamed like coals. I ought to have been afraid, but I wasn't.
"You shall show them!" I gasped. "You shall! Will you play for the hotel? We can fill this place for you. We can"
16
