It creaked slightly. Beyond was another door, on which was painted in black letters: MR. Ramage’s bitterness passed as abruptly as his aggression. Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living. Only that I was prevented by one of those soldiers that caught me in the big house. It’s artificially chance. 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.
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