He stopped on the outside edge. "How's the girl?" he asked.
"Alright," the old woman answered.
"And the man?"
"Alright," she repeated.
He was turning to go away when she spoke again in singularly sweet and winning tones. "Won't you come and sit down, sir?"
"Thanks," he answered, stopping in doubt.
"And father'll play."
A young gipsy immediately got up and disappeared into the flashy looking caravan, to reappear with a violin and bow in his hands.
An old man who had lain stretched out before the fire arose and took the instrument; he fingered it lovingly. Carstairs looked at him with curiosity; he was attired in an old frock coat, green with age, and the silk facings threadbare; straightened out he would have been as tall as Carstairs himself, but he was bent and bowed, his knees tottered, his face was the uniform purple-red of the confirmed drunkard. He tried the strings with his fingers, tuning up. They brought forward a chair, and he sat down. The face, Carstairs thought, showed something of refinement and good breeding even in its bloated, blotched condition. He pushed back his greasy cap and showed a head of fine silver-grey hair; the mouth was in constant motion, twitching, compressing, relaxing. He passed the bow across the strings, making a harsh, jarring scream; then he seemed to settle down, and Carstairs was entranced.
He dropped down beside one of the gipsies and sat silent, lost in beautiful, entrancing thought. All that was best in his life came back to him, his highest thoughts and loftiest ambition were stirred and enlarged, his resolution strengthened, his soul uplifted. He glanced round the circle of rough, mahogany-coloured faces. Dark eyes glistened like precious jewels in the flickering firelight, the rough lines of the features seemed softened.