The piano was old and needed attention, but he thought that he had never heard finer playing.

First she gave him some modern things--some Debussy, _Les Miroires_ of Ravel, some of the Russian ballet music of _Cleopatre_.

These she flung at him, fiercely, aggressively, playing them as though she would wring cries of protest from the very notes.
"There," she cried when she had finished, flashing a look that was almost indignant at him.

"There is your modern stuff--I can give you more of it." "I would like something better now," he said gravely.
Without a word that mood left her.

In the dim candle-light her eyes were tender again.