“But do you not think that after we stand at the altar, we never should be separated?”
“We will be together always,” said he, holding her face between his palms, and looking with tender expression into her inquiring eyes.
“But I notice that women cluster around you after your concerts—and shake your hand longer than they should—and talk to you longer than they should—and go away looking self-satisfied!” she replied brokenly, much as a little girl tells of the theft of her doll.
“Nonsense,” he said, smiling, “that is all part of my profession; it is not me they care for, it is the music I give that makes them happy. If, in my playing, I achieve results out of the common, they admire me!” and he kissed away the unwelcome tears.
“I know,” she continued, “but lately, since we have loved each other, I can not bear to see a woman near you. In my dreams again and again an indefinable shadow mockingly comes and cries to me, ‘he is not to be yours, he is to be mine.’” Diotti flushed and drew her to him. “Darling,” his voice carrying conviction, “I am yours, you are mine, all in all, in life here and beyond!” And as she sat dreaming after he had gone, she murmured petulantly, “I wish there were no other women in the world.”
Her father was expected from Europe on the succeeding day’s steamer. Mr. Wallace was a busy man. The various gigantic enterprises he served as president or director occupied most of his time. He had been absent in Europe for several months, and Mildred was anxiously awaiting his return to tell him of her love.
When Mr. Wallace came to his residence the next morning, his daughter met him with a fond display of filial affection; they walked into the drawing-room, hand in hand; he saw a picture of the violinist on the piano. “Who’s the handsome young fellow?” he asked, looking at the portrait with the satisfaction a man feels when he sees a splendid type of his own sex.
“That is Angelo Diotti, the famous violinist,” she said, but she could not add another word.
As they strolled through the rooms he noticed no less than three likenesses of the Tuscan. And as they passed her room he saw still another on the chiffonnier.
“Seems to me the house is running wild with photographs of that fiddler,” he said.