He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. Jonathan cast a hasty glance around, to see that all was properly arranged for his purpose; placed a chair with its back to the door; disposed the lights on the table so as to throw the entrance of the room more into shadow; and then flung himself into a seat to await Sir Rowland's arrival. She had no inkling of that insupportable wrong. Once or twice she commented upon it, but she knew that it was resultant of his fear of her impending departure. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. I do not love you.
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