He yelled but he had no breath to support his own voice. There was no one to be seen. 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. But that title he would not endure. “Michelle, I think that you are the victim of an extremely overactive imagination. In a sense it alters nothing. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music.
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