Perhaps some new chord had been touched in my own heart that had never before responded to human things; for in spite of myself I sat and wept with a full, aching heart.  I tried to shield my face with my fan and at last regained my composure, and tried, in sly fashion, to dry my eyes with the bit of lace I called my handkerchief, and which I found a very poor substitute for the substantial lawn hitherto used.  At last I regained my composure sufficiently to look up, when I found Mr. Bovyer regarding me keenly.  He glanced away, but after that his manner grew sympathetic, and on our way home he said,

“I am glad to know you can understand great musical conceptions.”

“I found it very, very sad.  I scarce ever realized how much pain there might be in this world, as for a little while I did to-night.”

“The tears were sorrowful then, and not glad?” he said, gently.

“My tears are always that.  I cannot conceive a joy so great as to make me weep.”

“Your heart is not fully wakened yet, some day you will understand; but be thankful you can understand a part.  Not many at your age feel the master’s touch so keenly.”  When we said good-night, he asked permission to call next day.  I waited for Mrs. Flaxman to reply, and turned to her, seeing she hesitated.  She smiled and I could see answered for me.

“We shall be happy to see you.  Mr. Winthrop receives his friends, I believe, to-morrow evening.”  As we went to our rooms she said:—­“Won’t it be wonderful if you have captivated Mr. Bovyer’s heart?—­I am sure Mr. Winthrop considered him a safe escort, so far as love entanglements were concerned.”

“That old man thinking of love!  He looks as if he thought much more of his dinner than anything else.”

“Probably he does bestow some attention on it; but he is not old, at least not more than six and thirty.  Beside he is a very clever man—­a musical critic and good writer; in fact, one of Mr. Winthrop’s most intimate friends.”

“That, I presume, speaks volumes in his favor,” I said, perhaps with a touch of sarcasm in my voice.

“Yes; Mr. Winthrop is an unerring judge of character; that is, of late years.”

“Well, I would nearly as soon think of marrying Daniel Blake as this Mr. Bovyer.  I have never been in love, but I have an idea what it is,” I said, following Mrs. Flaxman to her room.

“But Mr. Bovyer might teach you.  Did you ever read Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

“Oh, yes; and of Titania and Bottom of course, but that was only a dream—­Mr. Bovyer is a very solid reality.  But I must not stay here gossiping.  Mr. Winthrop will be waiting for my description of the music.”