“Any as fine looking as—as—as—well, say the young lady we dined with to-night?”
“Miss Wallace?” queried the Tuscan.
“Yes, Miss Wallace,” this rather impatiently.
“She is very beautiful,” said Diotti, with solemn admiration.
“Have you ever seen any one prettier?” questioned the old man, after a second prolonged sip. “I have no desire to see any one more beautiful,” said the violinist, feeling that the other was trying to draw him out, and determined not to yield.
“You will pardon the inquisitiveness of an old man, but are not you musicians a most impressionable lot?”
“We are human,” answered the violinist.
“I imagined you were like sailors and had a sweetheart in every port.”
“That would be a delightful prospect to one having polygamous aspirations, but for myself, one sweetheart is enough,” laughingly said the musician.
“Only one! Well, here’s to her! With this nectar fit for the gods and goddesses of Olympus, let us drink to her,” said old Sanders, with convivial dignity, his glass raised on high. “Here’s wishing health and happiness to the dreamy-eyed Tuscan beauty, whom you love and who loves you.”