Beverly could hardly repress a smile as his eyes fell on the slim figure of the poor, grey-headed, homely old artist. Was this the noble young foreigner, the handsome German music master he had pictured to himself? Was this Hélène's romance?
"Gott in Himmel, what a squeeze he gives the hand!" thought Von Barwig, as he tried to release his injured digits from the vice that held them.
"I am so glad to see you, Herr Von Barwig," said Beverly; and he meant it.
"Yes, and I, too," groaned Von Barwig as he rubbed his fingers. "A fine fellow," he thought. "Such a welcome as that must come from the heart. But ach Gott, what a muscle! It's like iron!"
Hélène was surprised. Beverly Cruger was far and away the most undemonstrative man of her acquaintance, and his cordial greeting of her old music master went straight to her heart. "He likes him because—perhaps, because I do," she thought.
"Do you know you remind me very much of a splendid bust of Beethoven I saw in the British Museum? Upon my word you do!"
Von Barwig bowed.
"Oh, I think Mozart rather than Beethoven," suggested Hélène. "He's not stern enough for Beethoven."
Again Von Barwig bowed.
Beverly Cruger shook his head. "Beethoven," he said, looking at Von Barwig critically. "Still—well—I'm not sure, perhaps——"