“Certainly, if I have Herr Kaufmann’s permission, and if I may borrow one of his violins.”
“Of a surety.” The Master clattered down the uncarpeted stairs and returned with an instrument of his own make. Without accompaniment, Lynn played, and the Doctor nodded his enthusiastic approval. Herr Kaufmann looked out of the window and paid not the slightest attention to the performance.
“Very fine,” said the Doctor. “We have enjoyed it.”
“I am glad,” replied Lynn, modestly. Then, flushed with the praise, and his own pleasure in his achievement, he turned to the Master. “How am I getting on?” he asked, anxiously. “Don’t you think I am improving?”
“Yes,” returned the Master, dryly; “by next week you will be one Paganini.”
Stung by the sarcasm, Lynn went home, and after tea the group resolved itself into its original elements. Herr Kaufmann and the Doctor sat in their respective easy-chairs, conversing with each other by means of silences, with here and there a word of comment, and Fräulein Fredrika was in the corner, silent, too, and yet overcome with admiration.
“That boy,” said the Doctor, at length, “he has genius.”
The crescent moon gleamed faintly against the sunset, and a wayworn robin, with slow-beating wings, circled toward his nest in one of the maples on the other side of the valley. The fragrant dusk sheltered the little house, which all day had borne the heat of the sun.
“Possibly,” said the Master, “but no heart, no feeling. He is all technique.”
There was another long pause. “His mother,” observed the Doctor, “do you know her?”