Carstairs was waiting at the street corner rendezvous early the following Sunday evening. Impatience had kept him company all day, a long day, but the impatience he felt now was even keener. He had been ahead of their appointment by about twenty minutes, for he was afraid that Erna might be there first. His vigil was that much the longer and more trying. What hours it took for minutes to pass! Suppose she did not come?

The fates, however, were good-humored. He could see an athletic figure coming along at a familiar leisurely pace. It was Erna. His joy and excitement were such that he could scarcely wait for her to reach him. What made her walk so slowly?

“Hello,” was her soft cheery greeting.

He had avoided the bakery restaurant all day. He could hardly return her salutation, the last of his courage having fled.

“Where—where shall we go?” he questioned.

“Anywhere,” she agreed genially.

Now was his opportunity. He must ask her. Of course, they could not walk the streets the whole of his two hours’ freedom. Nor could they go to the theatre so early. Would she sense these arguments? Moreover, they had been to a restaurant for a little refreshment and conversation on their two former outings. She had not enjoyed those visits particularly, reminding her, as they must have, of her daily life at Landsmann’s.

“It’s a little bit too cold,” he ventured.

“Not so very,” she returned mischievously, as they started walking.

He was frightened. “But—”

She was enjoying his embarrassment, but came to his assistance with: “Well, where shall we go? It’s up to you. You did the invitin’.”

“I’ve got nearly two hours,” he explained. “Can you stay out that long?”

“I’m off for the rest o’ the night,” she assured him; “but I ought to be back under the quilt by ten. I’m a bit tired.”

“Of course, you are,” he agreed hurriedly—this was another opportunity—“so we mustn’t do any walking. Do you—would you like to come—”

“Yes.”

“How would you like to come over to my place?”

It was out. What would she say?

“Will anybody else be there?”

“Oh no!” “It’s over there on Fourteenth Street somewhere, ain’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t mind,” she said.

Joy and excitement overwhelmed him. He could not speak. And he had imagined all along that it would be so difficult to induce her to come. He did not know what to say.

“Do we cross here?” she suggested.

“Yes,” he said in a low tone.

The need of politeness forced itself upon him. Timidly, he took her arm and led her across the street. As a matter of fact, it was she, who was so much stronger and more daring than he, who had done the leading. They reached the opposite side, and walked along in silence. After a minute or so, they approached an old building.

“Here it is,” he declared nervously and let go her arm.

They climbed three smelly flights of stairs, followed a dark hallway and came to a halt. He took out his keys and opened a door. “Step in,” he requested.

“You’ve got the light lit,” she announced.

“Yes, I thought it’d be—”

“It’s awful nice here.”

“Do you think so?” he questioned eagerly, greatly encouraged. “But it’s such a small, dingy place.”

“Oh no,” she maintained. “It’s nice an’ cosy.”

Erna walked about, examining articles with her inquisitive eyes. “So this is your piano?”

“Yes, it’s an old box.”

“No, it’s nice lookin’. An’ whose picture is that?”

“My mother’s.”

“An’ that one?”

“Oh that—that’s only—”

“An old friend?” she assisted him.

“Yes,” he agreed, and his blushes appeared.

Fortunately, Erna’s back was turned. But she knew he was blushing, and her face lighted with pleasure. She examined other articles.

Carstairs asked quickly: “Won’t you take off your things?”

Slowly, she removed her coat and hat, and fixed her hair at a small looking glass. “Men use these things too,” she observed.

“Yes, we do,” he echoed, and put her things on the couch, where he likewise laid his own.

“Sit down,” he advised.

“Over here?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, this is a nice soft chair.”

Carstairs walked about a while. He was so nervous that he did not know what to do. Nevertheless, he realized that he must offer to entertain her. At least, he must say something.

But Erna spoke first. “What makes you walk around?”

“Oh nothing,” he returned abruptly, looked about in confusion and finally selected the piano stool, which, however, was so close to Erna’s chair that his confusion grew. The girl, herself, had betrayed a little embarrassment once or twice, but she had conquered its last sign. This was perhaps possible because of her enjoyment of Carstairs’ rather pathetic condition. Erna loved and craved praise or flattery, and the young composer’s substitute for them was certainly a decided tribute.

“It’s awful nice here,” she repeated.

“I’m glad you think so,” he responded gratefully, and glanced toward her, only to look away.

“It’s kind o’ restful too.”

This was an excellent opening.

“You must be very tired,” he declared.

“A little bit.”

“You’ve been working all day?”

“Since six-thirty this morning.”

“Lord, then you must be tired.”

“Not so very much,” she denied with pride. “I can stand work.” He dared a glance at her strong body and her bold eyes. How splendid she was!

“But you must be tired,” she continued.

“Yes,—no, only a very little.”

“You’ve been workin’ all day too.”

“At the afternoon performance. I didn’t get away until six o’clock.”

“An’ you go on to-night?”

“From nine to eleven, yes,” he explained, and felt ashamed that he was so weary. And she had been working in that stuffy, unhealthy dining room and kitchen since half-past six and was as cheerful as ever.

“You’ll be needin’ a rest now,” she went on.

“Oh no!” he hastily assured her.

“Then will you play for me? I never heard you play, an’ I’ve heard Mr. Breen an’ Mr. Nielsen talk so much about you.”

“They are flatterers,” he said, with a self-conscious laugh. “But if you’d like—if you—would you really like to have me?”

“Of course.”

This was his next opportunity, but again, his courage would not assist him. What should he play? “Do you really feel like listening?” he began once more.

“Of course—I like music,” she argued. There was nothing else to do. He had better start playing. And Carstairs turned on the stool. “What shall I play for you?”

“Anything at all.”

“But wouldn’t you rather—”

“Play somethin’ you like yourself,” she interrupted.

Carstairs hesitated. He had not had the faintest idea how difficult it would be. Moreover, he could feel her soft brown eyes resting on him. And he had been vowing such wonderful deeds of late: that he would play for her as he never had for any one—that he would play her composition, which belonged so naturally to her. Instead, he could scarcely touch a key.

A spirit of self-condemnation took possession of him. He must forget himself. She would think him a fool. Besides, she might learn how much he—No, she must not learn that. He commenced improvising.

The young composer blundered considerably at first, but his self-resentment helped him, and his efforts soon displayed more coherence and warmth. Should he open his program with “To Thee”? Why not? Why wait until later? But she might understand. She might catch its significance and then—But how could she know that he had written the composition? It might just as easily belong to some other composer. Yes, he would play it.

“Are you ready?” he asked with attempted levity.

“Of course, don’t stop!” she encouraged him.

Carstairs played “To Thee”, at first, with timidity and uncertainty, but by and by with more resolution and consequent expressiveness as his faith in the composition, as an expression of himself, returned. Gradually, too, he realized how appropriate was the mood that flowed through its measures.

Erna watched him. A greedy little smile played about the corners of her mouth and her nose twitched slightly. But the corners straightened and her nose stopped twitching.

No, he was too soft. His shoulders were so weak and his hands so small and his face so pale—just like his nature. He belonged to his mother up there and to that soft pretty face over there. But he was a nice, decent fellow. And he was lots of fun, he was so different from other men. But he was sad. She loved joy and freedom. He seemed like a mean little prisoner, and he made her feel soft too. But he had always been decent toward her. Yes, he belonged to such as his mother and the pretty face. Anyhow, he knew how to play the piano.... What a different time she had had last night! Jimmy was such a big, strong, happy fellow. But even he did not quite satisfy her. Erna sighed just a little.

She regained immediate control of herself and stopped studying Carstairs. Instead, she followed the patterns in the small rug at her feet. Presently, she gave herself up to the music. It was very pretty. It sounded familiar too.

Carstairs finished playing.

“I like that,” she said instantly.

“Do you?” he demanded, wheeling toward her.

“Yes, it’s awful nice,” she complimented him.

He brightened perceptibly. “Do you really think so? Do you really like it?”

“Of course!”

He could not repress his emotion. “Do you—I—what do you think?” he asked with enthusiasm.

“What?”

“Do you know who wrote that?”

“No.”

“I wrote that,” he broke out, and leaned forward.

“You did?”

“Yes!”

“It’s awful nice,” she repeated.

This was not very strong applause, but it was more than sufficient for Carstairs, and he grew reckless. In one moment, he had confessed himself the author of the work, and in the next, such was his present rashness, he was about to go much farther.

“How would you like—” but he stopped, and smiled in a happy way.

“What?” she urged him.

“You’re sure you like it?” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“Would you like to have it?” he asked with sudden boldness.

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you understand?” he rambled on, and explained: “Composers, you know, write songs and piano pieces and orchestral works, and afterward they often dedicate them to somebody—to one of their friends or—or one of their relatives. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I want to do,” he continued excitedly. “I wrote the piece—it’s nothing wonderful, but I—I put myself into it and—and you like it—”

“Yes.”

“So I’d like to give it to you.”

“But I don’t play,” she protested.

“That isn’t the point,” he declared. “I’m dedicating it to you—that is, your name appears on it: first, the name of the composition, then my name, as composer, and then ‘to Miss Erna Vitek.’ Do you see?”

“Oh yes!”

“Do you like the idea?”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

“Great!” he cried.

“But what’s the name o’ the piece?” she requested quietly.

“Why, I—I gave it a name—but suppose I call it simply: ‘A Song’?”

“Yes.”

“Sure! That’d be a nice title, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes.”

His emotions threatened to run over. He wanted to tell her the rest: that, as a matter of fact, she had been the one to inspire the composition—his inspiration—but, well, that would be going too far. She would be learning too much. But this was the happiest day of his life. He had made a long stride, even over the evening when, for a few confidential minutes, she had confided to him those details of her past relation with Allen. He must compose many compositions for her.

Carstairs played other music, composition after composition, many of them his own, but all the while he waited to hear Erna ask him to repeat her composition. She did not do so at once, but eventually, bored—to tell the truth—by the incessant flow of music, she made the request. Overjoyed, he repeated the work, and every measure lingered, breathed and swayed with the mood of its creator. Near the close, Erna succeeded in stifling a yawn.

It was after nine o’clock when Carstairs conducted her down the three flights. He would receive a reprimand and fine when he reported at the music hall. But what did he care?

The young composer did not return to his sanctum until eleven thirty. He quickly lit the gas. At the theatre, a thought had come to torment him, as he had rehearsed the evening’s doings and joys many times over. He went to the piano and took down the picture of the girl. Presently, he buried it under a heap of odds and ends that littered the drawer of a bureau, and said to himself for at least the fiftieth time: “What a careless damned fool I am!”