“Don’t you know who that is? But of course you don’t, having been shut up so long. It is our new music teacher, Karl Zikoff. He came to town about a week ago. There is a resemblance, looking at him from behind, but I never noticed it before. We are passing him now. Look at his face. Isn’t he funny?”
Florence stared at the face of the musician attentively. He had stubby side-whiskers and mustache, and wore spectacles. A long, loose sack-coat fluttered in the breeze as he walked, and a broad-brimmed, low-crowned black hat was set back on his head. His whole countenance was exposed, and even at that distance a scar over his right eye was visible. His eyes were bright and rolled about quickly, his movements were nervous, and he flourished his cane in an awkward manner.
“He is peculiar,” said Florence, smiling. “There is no resemblance, come to get a good view of him. You must pardon me; I was frightened.”
“Even if it were the one you thought it was, I should think there was no occasion for any one being frightened but himself. You may depend upon it Carlos Conrad will not be seen in Dalton unless he is brought here.”
“Do you know,” said Florence, thoughtfully, “that I have hoped all along that he would——”
Here she checked herself, and was silent.
“Hoped what, Florence?”
“Never mind; it was only a passing fancy, not worth uttering. Has this Mr. Zikoff many pupils?”
“Several, I believe. They say he is a magnificent player.”
“You have not heard him, then?”