“And I should like to have your opinion on the subject of love, Mr. Linley,” said she in a slow voice, and letting her languorous eyes rest for a second or two on his—for a second or two—no longer. She recollected the horse-breaker; he did not force the bit into the mouth of his colt all at once. He allowed the little animal to put his nose down to the steel gradually. He did not frighten him by flashing it in his face.
“I told Betsy what I thought about love,” said he. “I told her that, while I did not assert that the sentiment of love had been brought into existence solely to give a musician an opportunity for illustrating it, still it formed an excellent subject for a musician to illustrate.”
“Indeed, you think well of love, Mr. Linley. Your views interest me amazingly. I should like to hear further of them. Love lends itself readily to the art of the musician? Yes, I should like to have this point further explained to me. I wonder if you chance to have by you any musical pieces by which you could demonstrate your theory.”
“Oh, there is no lack of such works, I assure you.”
“And I take it for granted that the only instrument that adequately interprets them is the violin. The violin is surely the lover’s choice in an orchestra!”
“It is the only instrument that has a soul, madam. Other instruments may have a heart: only the violin has a soul.”
“That is what I have felt—all my life—all my life; but until now my feeling was never put into words. Oh, it would be so good of you if you would play at your next concert some of the music that illustrates your theory. I wish to learn from you—indeed I do.”
“I do not play in public for another week.”
She gave an exclamation of impatience and then one of regret.