Her manner, however, did more than that; it gave to him, conscious of a certain stiffness and inflexibility of temperament, an inner sense of completion anticipated from his hope of a time when their lives would join.

He leaned forward in his chair, watching the play of her face, the lights and shadows in the curls of her hair, the nimble touch of her fingers on the keys.

Clarice stopped suddenly.

'You don't sing ?' 'I have no accomplishments at all.' She laughed and began to play one of Chopin's nocturnes.

Her fingers rattled against the ivory on a run up the piano.