One evening someone put Elman's rendition of Schubert's "Ave Maria" on the phonograph.

Long after it was over she sat motionless in her chair.
Echoes.

The Tschaikowsky waltz.

She got up suddenly, excused herself, and went to her room.
Six days, and her problem was still unsolved.

Something in her--she could not define it, she could not reach it, it defied analysis--something, then, revolted at the idea of marrying Cutty, divorcing him, and living on his money.