“It is hardly a merit in me,” answered Castellani modestly; “my father was one of the finest musicians of his time in Italy.”
“Indeed!”
“You are naturally surprised. His genius was poorly appreciated. His name was hardly known out of Milan and Brussels. Strange to say, those stolid Flemings appreciated him. His work was over the heads of the vulgar public. He saw such men as Verdi and Gounod triumphant, while he remained obscure.”
“But surely you admire Verdi and Gounod?”
“In their places, yes; both are admirable; but my father’s place should have been in a higher rank of composers. But let me not plague you about him. He is dead, and forgotten. He died crown-less. I heard you playing Mozart’s ‘Gloria’ as I came in. You like Mozart?”
“I adore him.”
“Yes, I know there are still people who like his music. Chopin did; asked for it on his death-bed,” said Castellani, with a wry face, as if he were talking of a vulgar propensity for sauerkraut or a morbid hankering for asafœtida.
“How I wish you would play something while we are waiting for my husband!” said Mildred, seeing her visitor’s gaze wandering to the open piano.
“If you will go into the garden and take your tea, I will play with delight while you take it. I doubt if I could play to you in cold blood. I know you are critical.”
“And you think I am not simpatica,” retorted Mildred, laughing at him. She was quite at her ease with him already, all thought of that Judas face in the church being forgotten. His half-deferential, half-caressing manner; his easy confidences about himself and his own tastes, had made her more familiar with his individuality in the space of an hour than she would have been with the average Englishman in a month. She did not know whether she liked or disliked him; but he amused her, and it was a new sensation for her to feel amused.