“I opened my eyes, and she was bending over my bedside. She and Courtlaw drove homewards together. People spoke of him everywhere as a young man of great promise, a politician by instinct, a keen and careful judge of character. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. Blueskin, you are a true friend. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her.
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