The old man could only gaze at her in silence. There she sat, the living image of his dead wife, talking musical matters in a foreign tongue; an absolute stranger to him, and yet he felt drawn toward her in a strange and unusual way. Who was she? What was she? Had the dead come to life? What had happened? He could only look at her, and feel so very, very happy. What did it all mean?
"How is your father?" he asked when there was a lull in the conversation, brought about by Miss Stanton's pausing to breathe.
Her face fell. "He is in Europe," she said, and did not continue the subject.
Von Barwig noticed that her face saddened when she spoke of her father's absence.
"She must love him very much," he thought, and the thought brought him to his senses.
"Don't be a fool, Barwig," he said to himself. "Her father is a multi-millionaire, one of the great men of the country. Her mother is dead, and you must content yourself with having dreamed that she was yours. You must not look at her, you understand? Don't look at her, or she will suspect what you think and you will be turned away. You have had your dream. Now wake up, wake up!"
It was time for him to awaken, for she was asking him if he thought that musical genius was allied to madness.
"I—I don't know," he replied. "I am not a genius!"
"Will you play for me?" he said, to hide his confusion.
"Not now," she replied. "I have an engagement. Come to-morrow at this hour. I'll leave word this time," she added with a smile. "Mr. Stanton is so particular about callers that no one can get near me without being personally guaranteed by Joles or Mr. Ditson."