"On the contrary," said Hélène, who had sharp ears. "The fellow I am thinking about is very unhappy."
"Ah, one of those sad affairs, with languishing eyes, who simpers and sighs!" said Charlotte laughingly, bursting into what she called poetry.
Hélène smiled a little. "You'd never guess," she said thoughtfully. Then, after a pause, "I am thinking of a musician, a music master who lives downtown in one of the little side streets of our crowded city. He is an artist and a gentleman, who has in all probability devoted the best years of his life to his music; and he has made a failure of it."
"Did he tell you his story?" asked Beverly, slightly interested.
Hélène shook her head. "He told me he was a great success, a flourishing artist, a rich man (in her enthusiasm Hélène exaggerated slightly), and not three minutes afterward the very piano on which he made his living was taken away from him because he had not sufficient money to pay for its hire. It was the most pitiful thing I ever saw; I simply can't forget it!"
"Poor chap! Can't we do anything for him?" asked Beverly, now thoroughly interested.
"He is very proud. I took one of our mission boys there, a lad who has great talent for music, and this strange individual refused to take any compensation for teaching him. He insisted on taking him for nothing, and said he loved children."
"I should say he was a strange individual," commented Beverly. "He ought to feel highly flattered at the interest you are taking in him."
"You want to look out for these distingué foreigners, Hélène! You're an heiress, you know," said Octavie, who was an omnivorous newspaper reader.
"Yes," said Hélène, and then she was silent. Beverly Cruger looked at her. Her face, usually happy and smiling, was sad and thoughtful.