“And where is he now?”
“I left him moving up toward the organ, in a kind of trance. He had never heard an organ in his life. I suppose he is there still. But I must see that boy, I must get him.”
“I should think so,” said his wife. “You owe him something.”
“I suppose I do,” said Jack, his face wearing a troubled look. “Say! This preaching business is a terrible job.”
“Never mind, my dear. I am sure you preach perfectly beautifully, and there is no better preacher in the city. But I wish you would not preach so much with the idea of ‘making ’em sit up,’ as you say. I tell you what, Jack,” she added with an inspiration, “take him to the Mission. That is what he wants.”
“Darling, you are a wonder,” cried her husband. “I wish I could show you how wonderful I think you are.” He rose from his place and walked round toward her end of the table, with the idea of demonstrating the marvellous charm of his wife.
“Go and sit down, you silly boy. Your dinner is cold. But you must get that boy and bring him here. I wonder where he is having his dinner? Down in some of those horrid hotels, I suppose.”
But Paul at that moment was oblivious of anything so material and mundane as dinner. As a matter of fact, he and the old white-haired organist, Victor DeLaunay, were discussing and discoursing music. As the old organist was concluding his morning postlude he turned about and saw a young chap with face aglow standing at his back.
“Wonderful!” exclaimed the youth. “Wonderful!”
“Do you play?”