A young man had been singing some songs. When he rose from the piano, the people near Isabelle began to chatter:—
"Isn't he good looking! … That was his own music,—the Granite City … Can't you see the tall buildings, hear the wind sweeping from the sea and rushing through the streets!" etc. Presently there was a piece of music for a quartette. At its conclusion a voice said to Isabelle from behind her chair:—
"Pardon me, but do you know what that was?"
She looked over her shoulder expecting to see an acquaintance. The man who had spoken was leaning forwards, resting one elbow on her chair, his hand carelessly plucking his gray hair. He had deep piercing black eyes, and an odd bony face. In spite of his gray hair and lined face she saw that he was not old.
"Something Russian, I heard some one say," Isabelle replied.
"I don't like to sit through music and not know anything about it," the stranger continued with a delicate, deliberate enunciation. "I don't believe that I should be any wiser if I heard the name of the piece; but it flatters your vanity, I suppose, to know it. There is Carova standing beside Mrs. Bertram; he's going to sing."
"Who is Carova?" Isabelle demanded eagerly.
"The new tenor at the Manhattan,—you haven't heard him?"
"No," Isabelle faltered and felt ashamed as she added, "You see I am almost a stranger in New York."
"Mrs. Bertram knows a lot of these musical chaps."