“Nothing in the world, thithter Kit.”
“O!” she said, “nothing is easily granted. I give you the case, your Highness.”
“He rates his own genius too lightly,” cried the Duke. “I see that, for the sake of his modesty, I must reverse the parts. Take me for advocate, then, and hear my plea. It is that, saving one factor, your brother is the most accomplished guitarist at Court.”
“O, fie, your Highneth!” said Arran, squirming in every limb. “Think of Corbetti.”
“A master, I grant,” said the Duke, “but with the faults incident to professionalism. A perfect executant, art hath yet despoiled him of nature. For pure sympathy, give me your born musician before your trained.”
Again Arran squirmed. “O, your Highneth, your Highneth!”
The Duke turned to Kate.
“Do you not love your brother’s playing?”
“Indeed,” answered the girl, perplexed, “Richard plays well.”
“Well?” he echoed, protesting. “Have you heard him in the new saraband?” She shook her head. “Ah!” he said: “not Corbetti himself could so interpret the loveliness of his own composition. I speak as one who knows. My lord’s performance, to eschew superlatives, was divine. Yet there was a flaw. The perfect master lacked the perfect instrument. To attain the latter, or at least more nearly approximate it, only one resource offered. Your ladyship, as he informed me, was owner of the finest guitar in all England. To hear him on that guitar became then a necessity with me—a fever, a passion. It was to entreat that opportunity that I ventured this descent upon your ladyship’s privacy.”