“Goot!” cried he, with a luminous wink; “I play de big fiddle already.”
Mary smiled, wondering what “already” could mean; but she had other things to occupy her thoughts. When the Don rose from his seat and laid his violin upon the piano, she had been struck with the serenity of his countenance, whence the music seemed to have chased every cloud. He was looking for some one. Yes, it was for her. Catching her eye, he filled a glass, or two, rather, and coming to her side and taking a seat, he expressed the hope that she had enjoyed the music.
“More than I can express. You have convinced me that I have never heard any real music before. Do you know, your quintet was as pleasing to the eye as to the ear? You would have afforded a fine subject for a painter. Three young men, a lovely girl, and a grandfather, all bound together as one by the golden chains of harmony! You can’t imagine what a lovely picture you made.”
“Thanks!”
“Oh,” said she, smiling, “there were five of you, so I have paid you, at best, but one-fifth of a compliment.”
“A vulgar fraction, as it were.”
“Yes,” said she, laughing; then with eyes cast down, and in a hesitating voice, she added, “I am going to make a confession to you; will you promise not to think me very foolish?”
“Such an idea, I am sure—”
“But, you know my friends all say I am so very sentimental,—that is to say, silly. You shake your head, but that is what they call me, and that is what it means.”
“You do your friends injustice; but give me a specimen, that I may judge for myself.”