“Oh, I say,” cried Barney, as much shocked as any one at the inopportune incident, and striding toward the performer, as soon as his wits came to him, “we didn’t want a dirge, don’t you know.”
The lady who had spoken in praise of Langly’s music laid a detaining hand on Barney’s arm.
“Hush!” she said gently, the glimmer of tears in her eyes, “don’t stop him. Listen! That man is inspired. I never heard Chopin played like that before.”
“Oh, it’s Chopin, is it?” murmured Barney, apologetically, as if, had he known it, he would not have interfered.
The throng dissolved rapidly with the unwelcome chords ringing in their ears, leaving Barney and his guest standing there alone. Langly, on finishing the march, sat where he was, his long arms drooping by his side.
“Wouldn’t you like to speak to him?” asked Barney.
“No, not now.”
The lady stole softly out, Barney following her to the landing at the head of the stair.
“Please don’t lose sight of him,” she said, giving Barney her hand. “I want you to ask him here again, and let me invite the guests.”
“I’ll do it,” said Barney, enthusiastically. “That will be awfully jolly.”