However, Helen was again relieved from her plight by the fact that as the fiddler stopped and the faint applause died out, she saw Mr. Harrison coming towards her. Mr. Harrison had somehow succeeded in extricating himself from the difficulty in which his hostess had placed him, and had no doubt guessed that Helen was no better pleased with her new companion.
“May I join you?” he asked, as he neared the sofa.
“Certainly,” said Helen, smiling; she introduced the two men, and Mr. Harrison sat down upon the other side of the girl. Somehow or other he seemed less endurable than he had just before, for his voice was not as soft as Mr. Howard's, and now that Helen's animation was gone she was again aware of the millionaire's very limited attainments.
“That was a very interesting thing we just heard,” he said. “What was it? Do you know?”
Helen answered that it was Raff's Cavatina.
“Cavatina?” said Mr. Harrison. “The name sounds familiar; I may have heard it before.”
Helen glanced nervously at Mr. Howard; but the latter gave no sign.
“Mr. Howard is himself a violinist,” she said. “We must be careful what criticisms we make.”
“Oh, I do not make any—I do not know enough about it,” said the other, with heartiness which somehow seemed to Helen to fail of deserving the palliating epithet of “bluff.”
“Mr. Howard has just been telling me about my own playing,” Helen went on, growing a little desperate.