'That is better, Madame! It was to talk of that I came.'
'Your playing?'
'My violin.'
'You want me to look at it? It is a Cremona?'
'It is not a Cremona; but if you like, I will give it you.'
Her dark eyes shone out in amazed amusement.
'You are eccentric, Monsieur! but your nation has a privilege of eccentricity. At least, you amuse me; and I have wearied myself enough this long evening. Show me your violin; I am something of a virtuosa.'
I took the instrument from its case, handed it to her in silence, watching her gravely. She received it with the dexterous hands of a musician, looked at the splendid stains on the back, then bent over towards the light in a curious scrutiny of the little, faded signature of its maker, the fecit of an obscure Bavarian of the seventeenth century; and it was a long time before she raised her eyes.
When she spoke, her rich voice had a note of imperious entreaty in it. 'Your violin interests me, Monsieur! Oh, I know that wood! It came to you—?'
'A legacy from an esteemed friend.'