“I didn’t come by the road; I came through by the wood-path from the Curtises. I’m spending the summer there. What a pity this lovely spot is poisoned, I am sorry; I might see you here again but for that. It makes a pretty tryst,” he said.
“Sorry? Why? You don’t know me.”
This pleased him. He had found a refreshing creature. At the outset he had thrilled at the prospect.
“Don’t I? You played once where I had the pleasure of hearing you. Your name is Esther—Esther Powel.”
“Yes, and I have seen your face before I saw it in the water. They called you ‘Glenn Andrews’ when they gave you the medal.”
She slowly looked him over from head to foot, and smiled as if in a trance of joy. It was all so wonderful, so strange—this hero’s coming.
“But I am still ahead. You will never see me win laurels again, perhaps, and I expect to hear you play many times.”
“Don’t be sure. It’s no use for me to play. People don’t seem to care whether they hear it or not. I play for myself, because the sounds from my violin seem to express what I feel.”
“But suppose I care?”
“Then I will play for you sometime, if we should meet again.”