“Why; is there a magic charm about it, that you fear other hands may discover?” queried the old man.
“I prefer that no one handle it,” said the virtuoso commandingly.
“Very well,” sighed the old man resignedly, “there are violins and violins, and no doubt yours comes within that category,” this half sneeringly.
“Uncle,” interposed Mildred tactfully, “you must not be so persistent. Signor Diotti prizes his violin highly and will not allow any one to play upon it but himself,” and the look of relief on Diotti’s face amply repaid her.
Mr. Wallace came in at that moment, and with perfunctory interest in his guest, invited him to examine the splendid collection of revolutionary relics in his study.
“I value them highly,” said the banker, “both for patriotic and ancestral reasons. The Wallaces fought and died for their country, and helped to make this land what it is.”
The father and the violinist went to the study, leaving the daughter and old Sanders in the drawing-room. The old man, seating himself in a large armchair, said: “Mildred, my dear, I do not wonder at the enormous success of this Diotti.”
“He is a wonderful artist,” replied Mildred; “critics and public alike place him among the greatest of his profession.”
“He is a good-looking young fellow, too,” said the old man.
“I think he is the handsomest man I ever have seen,” replied the girl.