"That would make no difference, for every instrument is as great with reference to others as some are in themselves."
"Seraphael could not have put it better. I play the trombone. It is a great sacrifice at present."
"But," I returned, "I have not heard the instrument,—is it not a splendid sort of trumpet? You mean it is not good for solos?"
"It is quite to itself,—a mere abstraction considered by itself; but to the orchestra what red is to the rainbow."
"I know who said that. He puts brass last, I see."
"Oh, you are a thief! You know everything already. Yes, he does put the violet first."
"The violin? Yes, so he called it to me; but I did not know he was fond of calling it so."
"It is one of his theories. It was, however, one day after he had been expounding it to a few of us who were fortunate enough to be present, when he was glancing through the class-rooms, that he put up his hands, and in his bright way, you know, scattering your reasoning faculties like a burst of sunshine, said, 'Oh, you must not entertain a word I have said to you,—it is only to be dreamed.'"
"What did he say? What had he said? Do, pray, out with it, or I cannot eat, I am sure."
We were just outside the hall doorway now; within were light and a hundred voices mingled. Into the dusk he gave his own, and I took it safely home in silence.