Then, all at once, the music broke forth. The great, vulgar, over-decorated room, with its garish lights, its stifling fumes of gas, was filled with the sound of dreams; and over the keen faces stole, like a softening mist, a far-away air of dreamy sensuousness. The long, delicate hands of the violinist, the dusky, sensitive face, as he bent lovingly over the instrument, seemed to vibrate with the strings over which he had such mastery.
The voice of a troubled soul cried out to-night in Leo’s music, whose accents even the hard brilliance of his accompanist failed to drown.
As the bow was drawn across the strings for the last time, Ernest’s solitaire board fell to the ground with a crash, the little balls of Venetian glass rolling audibly in every direction.
The spell was broken; every one rose, and the card-players, who by this time were hungry, came strolling in from the other room.
Reuben found himself the centre of much handshaking and congratulation on his improved appearance. He was popular with his relatives, enjoying his popularity and accepting it gracefully.
“No airs, like that stuck up Leo,” the aunts and uncles used to say.
“There’s a spread in the dining-room; won’t you stay?” said Rose, as Reuben held out his hand in farewell.
“Not to-night.” He turned last of all to Judith, who stood there silent, with smiling eyes.
“To-morrow in Portland Place,” he said, clasping her hand with lingering fingers.
As he walked home in the warm September night he had for once neither ears nor eyes for the city pageant so dear to him.