"I think that we have a great musical treat before us," remarks Sophie, after a while. "Lensky has an uncommonly fine programme to-day. The first number is a trio of Schumann; then his accompanist plays a couple of little things; then comes a saraband, by Bach; something by Paganini, I do not know what; then a melody by Lensky himself--'La Legende' is the name, I think. It is dedicated to his wife."
"Ah! he plays that also?" asks Nita, shortly.
"Have you already heard him play it?" asks Sophie.
"Yes, once, a few years ago," replies Nita, without looking up.
"I am usually not very fond of his compositions, but I know of nothing that goes to one's heart more than this melody when he plays it," says Sophie. Nita is silent.
"You seem tired and ill, my heart," says Sophie, after a pause. "If you really do not want to go to the concert, if you were really going merely on my account, I would rather stay at home."
"No," says Nita, gloomily. "I have said it. I will go."
Lensky's concert is to take place at four o'clock. About half-past three Nita and Sophie, in a rattling fiacre, roll out of the quiet Rue Murillo into the noisy heart of the city. All at once the cab slows its pace. "What is the matter?" asks Sophie, putting her head out of the window.
"I cannot go on. The row of carriages blocks the way," answers the coachman. The horses stop. Nita also looks out. "What a tumult!" says she. "One carriage crowds another; it is as if a celebrity was to be buried."