“Why? Because, because—he is in love with some one in America.”
“Ah, with you, I see,” said the old man, as if it were the greatest discovery of his life; “are you sure he has not some beautiful sweetheart in Tuscany as well as here?”
“What a foolish question,” she replied. “Men like Angelo Diotti do not fall in love as soldiers fall in line. Love to a man of his nobility is too serious to be treated so lightly.” “Very true, and that’s what has excited my curiosity!” whereupon the old man smoked away in silence.
“Excited your curiosity!” said Mildred. “What do you mean?”
“It may be something; it may be nothing; but my speculative instinct has been aroused by a strange peculiarity in his playing.”
“His playing is wonderful!” replied Mildred proudly.
“Aye, more than wonderful! I watched him intently,” said the old man; “I noted with what marvelous facility he went from one string to the other. But however rapid, however difficult the composition, he steadily avoided one string; in fact, that string remained untouched during the entire hour he played for us.”
“Perhaps the composition did not call for its use,” suggested Mildred, unconscious of any other meaning in the old man’s observation, save praise for her lover.
“Perhaps so, but the oddity impressed me; it was a new string to me. I have never seen one like it on a violin before.”
“That can scarcely be, for I do not remember of Signor Diotti telling me there was anything unusual about his violin.”