Finally even the Earl of Raymore faded into the background of her consciousness and the music lived for itself. It seemed no longer as if she played the music but as if the music released her into life and freedom.

Cousin Hetty, fretting over the fact that her charge had neither received company nor ventured out of doors for three whole days, decided on the Friday morning that she must take a firm hand. When Rosalind could not be persuaded to recognize her need of any new purchases for the evening, she herself had to make up a list of imaginary items that she needed. She could not possibly shop alone, she assured her charge. That would be most dreary. And positively none of her acquaintances rose before noon. Would Rosalind please spare an hour of her time?

Rosalind went with great reluctance. When they returned to Grosvenor Square at noon, it was to find that they had visitors awaiting them in the drawing room. Sylvia and Nigel had returned to London a day earlier than planned when Nigel's sister, Letty, had written to tell them that Rosalind was to play at Raymore's concert. They had traveled all night, having received the news only the day before.

"But we could not miss it, Ros," Sylvia said, throwing her arms around her cousin. "It is perfectly splendid news. I said to Nigel when I heard, 'How I wish I could be there,' and he said, 'Pack a bag; we are going.' And here we are."

Rosalind looked from one to the other of the newly married pair. They both positively glowed, despite the lines of tiredness that smudged the eyes of both. If they had made a mistake, they certainly had not discovered it yet. And somehow Rosalind did not believe that they had made a mistake.

"I always knew you were out of the ordinary, Ros," her cousin continued. "I never persevered with my own playing because I felt so inferior to you. But even so, this is a signal honor for you. Nigel says that Edward's opinion on music and art is very highly respected."

"My love," Nigel said now, "you are so tired that you must be sleeping on your feet. And if my guess is correct, Rosalind has her mind on other matters today than prattling with us. Let us go and get some sleep before this evening."

"As you wish, Nigel," his bride agreed, smiling radiantly at him. She placed her hand in his.

"Are you not staying here?" Cousin Hetty asked.

"No, ma'am," Nigel replied. "We stay at my brother's home for a few days before moving back to the country. When summer is over, we will find a house of our own. And I plan to make a start with a boys' school for the poor."

"Sylvie," Rosalind said, hugging her cousin, "I am so glad you returned today. I shall feel far less lonely and overawed tonight knowing that you are there."

"Nigel said you would feel that way," Sylvia agreed, and allowed herself to be led away by her husband.

"That little puss has got what she wants, at any rate," Cousin Hetty remarked as she and Rosalind made their way to the dining room for luncheon. "She has no business looking so happy. But then, I always did have a soft spot for young love. One sees it so rarely nowadays."


***

The Earl of Raymore did not dine at home. He had decided to keep his promise to Rosalind to the letter. He had not set eyes on her since that afternoon in the music room. He stood at the entrance to the music room now, greeting his guests as they arrived. The room was lit brilliantly by chandeliers that held hundreds of candles. Gilt chairs to accommodate the guests were set out around the room. He was nervous. Never had he succeeded in presenting someone of quite the caliber of Hans Dehnert at one of his concerts. He hoped that the setting would be to the man's liking. But it was Rosalind who caused his feeling of trepidation. He did not doubt her skill, but he knew her to have a somewhat volatile temper. How would she stand up to the strain of such an occasion? Had he pushed her too far?

He longed to see her again. Yet he dreaded it, too. It would be the last time, except possibly for the farewell he would take of her next week or the week after. He doubted that she would want him to attend her wedding, and indeed he did not wish it himself.

She finally appeared on the arm of Crawleigh. He recalled then that her fiance had been engaged to dine at the house. She was looking pale, but there was a determined set to her jaw. She wore the same rose-pink gown that she had worn to her come-out ball. Her dark hair was piled in intricate swirls around her head, a few tendrils carefully curling over her temples and along her neck. She looked the picture of beauty to the man on whom her eyes were riveted.

Rosalind hardly knew how she had reached the music room. She knew that she was leaning rather heavily on Bernard's arm and that she was limping more than usual. She was in the grip of a blind terror. She could not go through with it, she thought. She would be sick. Every moment she thought she would have to tell Bernard to turn back. Then she caught sight of the Earl of Raymore standing inside the doorway of the music room looking reassuringly cool and confident. He had told her she could do it. And he did not appear worried now that he had made an error. She fixed her eyes on him and felt some of the warmth returning to her body.

He looked back at her, smiled, and bowed. "Rosalind," he said, taking her hand in a steady, warm one, "how are you feeling? Crawleigh?"

She made a grimace that passed for a smile. "Terrified," she admitted.

He placed her hand on his arm and led her to an empty chair in the front row. Sir Bernard followed them. "I should be worried if you were not," Raymore said softly. "You will play magnificently, I promise you."

"Will I?" she asked, looking up at his reassuring smile.

Hans Dehnert arrived soon afterward. There was a stir among the assembled guests as he crossed the room and seated himself at the pianoforte. Rosalind stared in surprise. She had expected someone seven feet tall. Could this slim little man with the receding hairline and nervous hands be the great pianist about whom she had heard so much?

After Raymore had introduced him and he began to play, Rosalind could understand his fame. He brought Mozart alive with his playing. One almost immediately forgot the player and saw, heard, and felt only the music. For a half-hour she sat enthralled as he played first the pianoforte and then the harpsichord. But the coldness began to creep back. Soon it would be her turn. How would she be able to get up and cross the expanse of floor to the instrument? How would she be able to play? How could she follow such a performance as this? She could not. She must somehow signal to Raymore her change of heart. Without knowing it, she began to clench and twist her hands in her lap.

Sir Bernard covered them with one of his. "Steady, love," he murmured. "You will be good."

His reassurance did not help much. By the time she joined in the applause for Hans Dehnert, she hardly knew what she was doing. When Raymore got to his feet, she stared at him as at a lifeline. He looked back.

"We shall hear more from Dr. Dehnert later, after refreshments," he told his guests. "I am sure you feel the same delight as I do that there is more to come. In the meanwhile, I wish to introduce to you a new talent that I discovered under my own roof. Miss Rosalind Dacey is a true musician, in the sense that she plays for the music alone, not for an audience. However, she has consented to play for us this evening. In a few moments you will all share with me the honor of hearing her perform. Rosalind?"

He was standing before her, his hand outstretched. Rosalind placed her own in it and rose to her feet. She had not taken her eyes from his. Raymore resisted the temptation to draw her arm through his and pull her close to his side so that her limp would be somewhat disguised. Rosalind Dacey did not need to disguise one defect when there was so much beauty in her. He led her to the pianoforte and seated her.

She could not begin. Her fingers would depress the wrong keys. She would not be able to move her fingers; they were cold and stiff. She could not remember the music. She stared at the keyboard for a moment in blind panic. Where was he? Where had he gone?

She looked up and locked eyes with the Earl of Raymore. He was not smiling. He was sitting very still. But there was a look in his eyes that she had not seen there before. It warmed her and calmed her completely. He believed in her. She would play for him. She would show him that he had not made a mistake.

She lowered her fingers to the keys. For the first few bars she played correctly but somewhat tensely. She was playing to the Earl of Raymore. But soon her eyes closed and she forgot everything except the music that was creating itself beneath her hands. She was surprised at the end of it when the sound of applause interrupted her thoughts, prolonged applause that was more than merely polite.

Raymore was not applauding. My God, he thought, she bas improved almost beyond recognition in four days. He rose to his feet only when he saw her slightly bewildered face. He crossed the room and bent over her. "You were magnificent," he said. "These people will want an encore, Rosalind."

"An encore?" she echoed. "Oh, no, please. I have not practiced anything else."

"Will you sing?" he asked, still bent over her, speaking for her ears only.

"Sing?"

"Will you sing the song about the rose?" he asked. "For me, Rosalind?"

She looked up at him, startled. "You mean the one by Mr. Burns?" she asked.

"Is that who wrote it?" he said. "That Scottish fellow, Robert Burns? Will you, Rosalind?"