She could not go; that little episode in the Englischergarten and all the attendant agitation had put her in bed for three days and rendered her quite unable to go out for two or three more. She had been obliged to write Jack that she was ill, with the above results, and she read his answer with the sensation that life was long, the future empty, and none of its vistas worth contemplating. Her heart ached dully—it was forever aching dully these days, and she—
There was a tap at the door. Europe has no open-door policy, be it known; all doors are always shut. Even those of pension salons.
She looked up, and saw him coming in, his violin case in his hand. Then life and its vistas underwent a great transformation, because he smiled upon her and, putting the case down carefully, came eagerly to kiss her hand.
“Vous allez bien ce soir?” he asked pleasantly, standing before her chair and looking down into her face.
“Oh, I am almost well, thank you; but why are you not gone to the concert?”
He pointed to his violin with a smile.
“It is a concert that I bring to you who may not go out,” he said.
“But you are making a tremendous sacrifice for me, monsieur.”
He stood before her, twisting his moustache.
“It is that I am regretful for the other night,” he said briefly, “for that I am glad to give the concert up and make you some pleasure. The other night—”