She stood leaning lightly against a pillar by the fountain. “I never hear a pianist, however great and famous, but I see the little cream-colored hammers within the piano bobbing up and down like acrobatic brownies. I never hear the plaudits of the crowd for the artist and watch him return to bow his thanks, but I mentally demand that these little acrobats, each resting on an individual pedestal, and weary from his efforts, shall appear to receive a share of the applause.
“When I listen to a great singer,” continued this world-defying skeptic, “trilling like a thrush, scampering over the scales, I see a clumsy lot of ah, ah, ahs, awkwardly, uncertainly ambling up the gamut, saying, ‘were it not for us she could not sing thus—give us our meed of praise.’”
Slowly he replied: “Masters have written in wondrous language and masters have played with wondrous power.”
“And I so long to hear,” she said, almost plaintively. “I marvel at the invention of the composer and the skill of the player, but there I cease.”
He looked at her intently. She was standing before him, not a block of chiseled ice, but a beautiful, breathing woman. He offered her his arm and together they made their way to the drawing-room.
“Perhaps, some day, one will come who can sing a song of perfect love in perfect tones, and your soul will be attuned to his melody.”
“Perhaps—and good-night,” she softly said, leaving his arm and joining her friends, who accompanied her to the carriage.
