“Criticism absorbs me the more I think,” Erard admitted.
“A pity, it’s a pity, you know. Talk doesn’t amount to much—in the end—all the talk in the world. I have a nephew over there in London—Walter, a pretty boy. He does a lot of talking, clever boy. But the thing, the main thing, is to feel.” He looked at Erard as if from a distance, examining his shambling form and thin face to see whether this fellow had it in him to feel.
Suddenly the music began once more, a fugue resurrected from some German manuscript and given to the modern world for the first time by the able young conductor. Erard took the opportunity to slide away from Sebastian Anthon. He seemed to hear as an accompaniment to the grave fugue the old man repeating, “A pity, it’s a pity!” Soon he was beyond his tormentor, very near to the booming music. Mrs. Wilbur had arranged the musical part of the evening, he concluded; she had shown positive genius in knowing what would impress the public and make her “function” remembered through the season. And the credentials of every selection were printed out on a little programme.
Then came the food and drink, to which the guests devoted themselves assiduously, earnestly, with what seemed to Erard an enormous reserve force. Wilbur had looked out for the supper, and he also had calculated well. In the billiard-room, where the men left their wraps, were liquors and cigars, towards which from time to time the younger males disappeared. This private-bar, in addition to the profuse champagne served publicly, aroused Erard’s curiosity.
He tiptoed about, sniffing the new atmosphere. He came across Molly Parker seated in a recess of the hall, enjoying equally her ice and a sleepy, affable young man who was telling a long story. She looked very attractive in a black gown, with long black gloves; the sombre colour deepened the fairness of her skin and emphasized the great eyes that were falling out in her excitement over the story and the ice. She reached Erard her left hand, in a casual fashion.
“Don’t disturb yourself, Mr. Wren,” she said sweetly to the flabby companion. “It’s only the new Parisian genius Mrs. Wilbur has imported, Mr. Simeon Erard. He won’t spend more than two minutes on me, if he does that.”
The young man rose pompously.
“Happy to meet you, Mr. Erard,—Erard, is it? And how do you find Chicago?”
“Very good place as long as it likes him,” Miss Parker interposed maliciously. “We will give you a lot of new sensations,” she went on, “but they won’t always be pleasant.”
“There are some very fine things here in your line, I believe,” the old young man continued ponderously.