“Here are several Hungarian mazurkas—weird things—you’ll like’em. Just polish off a few for us while we have some tea, will you? They are all complimenting your playing—they’re people who know a good thing when they hear it. Won’t you have some refreshment yourself before you begin?”
Langly shook his head, and began playing the Hungarian music. Barney sat down again beside the lady, smiling with satisfaction at being able to pose as the patron of so accomplished a musician. The lady leaned her chin on her hand, and listened intently.
“How marvellously he does those mazurkas!” she whispered, softly. “He brings out that diabolical touch which seems to be in much of the Polish and Hungarian music.”
“Yes,” assented Barney, cordially, “he does play like the devil, yet he is an organist in a church. Ah, well, I suppose Beelzebub looks after our music as he does our morals.”
“Has he composed anything?”
“Who? Satan?”
“No, no. You know very well I’m speaking of the organist.”
“Composed! Well, rather. He’s an unrecognized genius, but I’m going to look after his recognition. I’m going to bring out some of his works, if he’ll let me. He’s a very modest man, and——”
“Another likeness to yourself.”
“Exactly, exactly. I’m always pushing other people forward and neglecting my own interests; still, I’ll arrive some of these days and astonish you all, don’t you know. You see, our set doesn’t produce men of genius like that organist. The ‘upper ten’ never produced a Shakespeare.”