played well, though without the sure touch of a professional. She played modern music, Debussy and Strauss, a little Scriabin. Then she dropped into the first movement of Beethoven’s Pathétique, that expression of a grief that is infinite, a sorrow that is endless and vast as the ages, but in which from end to end breathes the spirit that will not accept defeat. In the solemnity of undying woe, it moves with the rhythm of the conqueror to its final doom.
Towards the end she faltered, her fingers struck a discord, and she broke off abruptly. She looked across at Maisie and laughed mockingly.
‘You see,’ she said. ‘They won’t let me.’
Then, without waiting for a reply to her somewhat enigmatical remark, she plunged into a strange haunting melody, a thing of weird harmonies and curious measured rhythm, quite unlike anything Segrave had ever heard before. It was delicate as the flight of a bird, poised, hovering—suddenly, without the least warning, it turned into a mere discordant jangle of notes, and Allegra rose laughing from the piano.
In spite of her laugh, she looked disturbed and almost frightened. She sat down by Maisie, and John heard the latter say in a low tone to her:
‘You shouldn’t do it. You really shouldn’t do it.’
‘What was the last thing?’ John asked eagerly.
‘Something of my own.’
She spoke sharply and curtly. Wetterman changed the subject.
That night John Segrave dreamt again of the House.
John was unhappy. His life was irksome to him as never before. Up to now he had accepted it patiently—a disagreeable necessity, but one which left his inner freedom essentially untouched. Now all that was changed. The outer world and the inner intermingled.
He did not disguise to himself the reason for the change. He had fallen in love at first sight with Allegra Kerr. What was he going to do about it?
He had been too bewildered that first night to make any plans. He had not even tried to see her again. A little later, when Maisie Wetterman asked him down to her father’s place in the country for a weekend, he went eagerly, but he was disappointed, for Allegra was not there.
He mentioned her once, tentatively, to Maisie, and she told him that Allegra was up in Scotland paying a visit. He left it at that. He would have liked to go on talking about her, but the words seemed to stick in his throat.
Maisie was puzzled by him that weekend. He didn’t appear to see—well, to see what was so plainly to be seen. She was a direct young woman in her methods, but directness was lost upon John. He thought her kind, but a little overpowering.
Yet the Fates were stronger than Maisie. They willed that John should see Allegra again.
They met in the park one Sunday afternoon. He had seen her from far off, and his heart thumped against the side of his ribs. Supposing she should have forgotten him—
But she had not forgotten. She stopped and spoke. In a few minutes they were walking side by side, striking out across the grass. He was ridiculously happy.
He said suddenly and unexpectedly:
‘Do you believe in dreams?’
‘I believe in nightmares.’
The harshness of her voice startled him.
‘Nightmares,’ he said stupidly. ‘I didn’t mean nightmares.’
Allegra looked at him.
‘No,’ she said. ‘There have been no nightmares in your life. I can see that.’
Her voice was gentle—different.
He told her then of his dream of the white house, stammering a little. He had had it now six—no, seven times. Always the same. It was beautiful—so beautiful!
He went on.
‘You see—it’s to do with you—in some way. I had it first the night before I met you.’
‘To do with me?’ She laughed—a short bitter laugh. ‘Oh, no, that’s impossible. The house was beautiful.’
‘So are you,’ said John Segrave.
Allegra flushed a little with annoyance.
‘I’m sorry—I was stupid. I seemed to ask for a compliment, didn’t I? But I didn’t really mean that at all. The outside of me is all right, I know.’
‘I haven’t seen the inside of the house yet,’ said John Segrave. ‘When I do I know it will be quite as beautiful as the outside.’
He spoke slowly and gravely, giving the words a meaning that she chose to ignore.
‘There is something more I want to tell you—if you will listen.’
‘I will listen,’ said Allegra.
‘I am chucking up this job of mine. I ought to have done it long ago—I see that now. I have been content to drift along knowing I was an utter failure, without caring much, just living from day to day. A man shouldn’t do that. It’s a man’s business to find something he can do and make a success of it. I’m chucking this, and taking on something else—quite a different sort of thing. It’s a kind of expedition in West Africa—I can’t tell you the details. They’re not supposed to be known; but if it comes off—well, I shall be a rich man.’
‘So you, too, count success in terms of money?’
‘Money,’ said John Segrave, ‘means just one thing to me—you! When I come back—’ he paused.
She bent her head. Her face had grown very pale.
‘I won’t pretend to misunderstand. That’s why I must tell you now, once and for all: I shall never marry.’
He stayed a little while considering, then he said very gently:
‘Can’t you tell me why?’
‘I could, but more than anything in the world I do not want to tell you.’
Again he was silent, then he looked up suddenly and a singularly attractive smile illumined his faun’s face.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘So you won’t let me come inside the House—not even to peep in for a second? The blinds are to stay down.’
Allegra leaned forward and laid her hand on his.
‘I will tell you this much. You dream of your House. But I—don’t dream. My dreams are nightmares!’
And on that she left him, abruptly, disconcertingly.
That night, once more, he dreamed. Of late, he had realized that the House was most certainly tenanted. He had seen a hand draw aside the blinds, had caught glimpses of moving figures within.
Tonight the House seemed fairer than it had ever done before. Its white
