"Perhaps I have been more fortunate than most artists," said Mendelssohn softly. "When I think of all that my dear father and mother did for us, I can scarcely restrain tears of gratitude. Almost more valuable than their careful encouragement was their noble, serious common-sense. My mother, whom Heaven long preserve to me, was not the woman to let me, or any of us, live in a fool's paradise, and my dear dead father was too good a man of business to set me walking in a blind alley. Ah!" he continued, with glistening eyes, "the great musical times we had in the dear old Berlin house!"
"Yes," said David; "Your house was on the Leipzig Road. You see, even then, the finger of fate pointed the way to this place."
"Indeed," said Schumann, with a sigh, "You certainly had extraordinary opportunities. Not that I've been badly used, though."
"Your father was genuinely proud of you," said David. "I remember his epigram: 'Once I was the son of my father; now I am the father of my son.'"
Mendelssohn nodded with a smile, and, turning to me, said in explanation, "You must know that my father's father was a famous philosopher."
"Well!" said Schumann, rising, "I must be going."
Bennett and David also prepared to leave, and I rose with them.
"Wait a moment," said Mendelssohn; and going to the door he called softly, "Cecile, are you there?"
He went out for a moment, and returned with a beautiful and charming girl, who greeted the three visitors warmly.