A misty shadow hid it from his eyes.

He could just see the shining of the silver strings, and the white line of his linen cuff.
Then suddenly, he forgot all else save that which he had been trying to remember.
He felt a strong tremor in his left wrist.

He was gripping the neck of the 'cello.

The strings were biting deep into the flesh of his finger-tips.
He raised the bow and swept it across the strings.
Low throbbing music filled the studio, and a great delight flooded Ronnie's soul.
He dared not give conscious thought to that which he was doing; he could only go on doing it.
He knew that he--he himself--was at last playing his own 'cello.

Yet it seemed to him that he was merely listening, while another played.
Two logs fell together in the fire behind him.
Bright flames shot up, illumining the room.
Ronnie raised his eyes and looked into the mirror.
He saw therein reflected, the 'cello and the Italian chair; but the figure of a man sat playing, and that man was not himself; that figure was not his own.
A grave, white face, set off by straight black hair, a heavy lock of which fell over the low forehead; long white fingers gliding up and down the strings, lace ruffles falling from the wrists.