"What dost thou see on the tree that thou wouldst like to have?" she asked, eagerly. "What is there, dearest?"
And, at the unwonted tenderness of her question, the floodgates of Pépin's reserve suddenly gave way. Placing his hands upon the girl's shoulders, he searched her face with his eyes.
"If there were another violin"—he began, and, faltering, stopped, and turned away to hide the tears that would come, strive as he might to hold them back.
"Did you hear him—and see him?" queried Miss Lys, a minute after, furiously backing Sedgely into a corner by the lapels of his frock coat. "You did—you know you did! And you are still here? Lord! What a man!"
Sedgely shrugged his shoulders with a pretense of utter bewilderment.
"What must I do?" he inquired, blankly.
"Do?" stormed Miss Lys. "Do? Why, scour Paris till you find a violin precisely like that one George is doing his best to saw in half. Here! Clément is at the door with the trois-quarts. Tell him to drive you like mad to the Printemps—to the big place opposite the Grand Hotel—to the Louvre—to the Bon Marché—anywhere—everywhere! But inside of one hour I must have that violin!"
When Sedgely returned, thirty minutes later, violin in hand, Ethel met him at the door.
"They are all at tea," she said. "We'll call Pépin out."
She placed the violin in the hands of the Vicomte without a word, and without a word Pépin took it from her. The instrument slid to his cheek as if impelled by its own desire.