“Very bad,” said Perior.
The unmitigated sentence reduced her to feeble plaintiveness.
“But why? This is really savage, you know.”
“Excuse me, I know I seem rude,” he looked at her now with something of an effort. “You see I tell you the uncompromising truth. Your piece is weak, and crude, and incoherent!”
Now that she met his eyes, Lady Henge saw that it gave him pain to speak so. Camelia standing over them smiled unruffled.
“It is a case of Berlioz and the Conservatoire, Schumann and the Philistines, Lady Henge. Mr. Perior is an old classicist—understands nothing outside strictest adherence to form. Your more modern march of the Davidsbündler could say nothing to him.” Perior did not look at her.
“If you will allow me, Lady Henge, I will come some day and go over a lot of Schumann with you. I think you will recognize the difference. His power and genuineness are apparent. And Schumann has a great deal to say.”
He smiled at her as he spoke, a very sweet smile—asking tolerance for the friend in spite of the critic’s unwilling arrogance. Lady Henge was soothed, though decidedly shaken.
“But you prefer severity to silly fibs.”