Just before dinner a quaint sort of letter was  placed in my hands. It was from some one in the  famous pianist's entourage, reminding me that  M. Paderewski was very fatigued after his heavy  work in the provinces, and begging that I would  under no circumstances ask him to play that evening. I was half amused, half annoyed by this unexpected communication, which, of course, I knew  better than to regard as inspired by my guest of  honor himself. It was also entirely superfluous, as  I always made it a strict rule never to request an  artist to perform in my house who did not come  there for that purpose or with that expressed intention. However, I thought no more about it until  after dinner, when I took an opportunity to inform  Paderewski, in a whispered “aside”, of the strange  warning I had received. I assured him seriously  that I had not had the slightest idea of asking him  to play, and that my friends were more than satisfied to have the pleasure of meeting him and enjoying his society. He replied :  “Do you imagine I think otherwise? This is a  case of 'Save me from my friends!' That I am  tired is perfectly true. But when I am in the mood  to play fatigue counts for nothing. And I am in  that mood to-night. Are you really going to have  some music?"   ''Yes, Piatti has brought his 'cello, and he is  going to take part in the Rubinstein sonata in D."   "Then I should like to play it with him; and more beside, if he will permit me. Piatti and I  are now old colleagues at the “Pops,” and we always get on splendidly together."   What could I say?— save express my gratitude,  and apprise my friends of the treat that was in  store. It was the more welcome because it was virtually unexpected. An unalloyed delight was the  performance of that lovely sonata by the “Prince  of 'Cellists” and the greatest of living pianists.  Both seemed to revel in the beauties of a work admirably designed for the display of their respective instruments, and the rendering was in every  way perfect. After it was over, dear old Piatti,  who rarely talked much, said to me in his quiet  way, “I quite enjoyed that. I have played the  sonata with Rubinstein many times, but it never  went better than to-night.'' Later on he played  again; and so did Paderewski— with Sullivan close  by his side, watching with fascinated eyes the  nimble fingers as they glided over the keys. That  evening the illustrious pianist was inspired.