“I was invited sometime ago to a private recital of Lahlberg. You know—that Russian pianist. He played many of his own compositions. I asked him to state to me in scientific terms what his music meant: why, for instance, he used seconds and sevenths where Chopin employed thirds and fifths. He was quite dumb, I assure you. I needed no further proof of what I had already expected——” the Doctor had meant to say “suspected”—: “the man is a clever charlatan.”
“But he plays so beautifully,” pleaded Mrs. Purze.
“We cannot trust uneducated senses any more than we can uneducated people.”
“No,” decided Cornelia in herself, “this is not what she wants.”
She had been watching Helen Daindrie with a growing singleness of interest. She saw how the girl’s body faintly stiffened when the Doctor spoke. She was aware of the implied direction, of the source of the heat of his words: she was attentive, she was respectful and impressed. And yet, Cornelia felt a specific turning away in the young girl’s mind, a wavering of interest, almost a recoil and a revolt from this intellectual tribute. He did not really hold her. When she wandered, Cornelia saw her relax. Now, during these last long words, suddenly Miss Daindrie turned and met Cornelia’s eyes. In them a twinkle of disdain, a gladness to be looking away.
“Have you heard Lahlberg?” Cornelia asked her. Dr. Westerling still talked.
“Yes.”
“Do you care for him?”
“I think he is very wonderful,” said Miss Daindrie. In her remark there was specific rebellion against what Dr. Westerling was saying. Cornelia noticed. It proved to her that there was danger after all of the Doctor’s winning....
Suddenly, she said to herself: “Why do I care?”