“Write it down. The divine ‘afflatus’ is not to be caged, sir, it comes and goes. I could never write that music down.”
Arthur felt in his pocket without answering, and found five shillings.
“If you will accept this?” he said.
“Thank you, sir, very much. I am gladder of five shillings now than I once was of as many pounds;” and he rose to go.
“A man of your talent should not be wandering about like this.”
“I must earn a living somehow, for all Talleyrand’s witticism to the contrary,” was the curious answer.
“Have you no friends?”
“No, sir, this is my only friend; all the rest have deserted me,” and he tapped his violin and was gone.
“Lord, sir,” said a farmer, who was standing by, “he’s gone to get drunk; he is the biggest old drunkard in the countryside, and yet they do say he was gentleman once, and the best fiddler in London; but he can’t be depended on, so no one will hire him now.”
“How sad,” said Angela, as they moved homewards.