The Master looked at him narrowly. “So it does. For instance, you have lost one lesson on account of it, but you can practise. Come down in mine shop where I am finishing mine violin. You shall play your concerto. It is not a necessity to lose the practise for death.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Lynn, as they went downstairs. “She was very old, you know—more than seventy-five. There is a great deal of fuss made about such things.”
Again the Master looked at him sharply, but Lynn was unconscious and perfectly sincere. He was not touched at all.
“You can have one of mine violins,” the Master resumed, “and I shall finish the one upon which I am at work. The concerto, please.”
At once Lynn began, walking back and forth restlessly as he played. He had long since memorised the composition, and when he finished the first movement he paused to tighten a string.
“You,” said the Master,—“you have studied composition?”
“Only a little.”
“You feel no gift in that line?”
“No, not at all.”