Edouard like a cold blast from an open door.  His fingers faltered on the neck of his violin, his bow wavered, drunkenly, across the strings, and he turned away his eyes to shut out the vision of his failure, seeking relief and sympathy.  And, in their swift passage, they encountered those of Corbin looking up at him, his eyes aglow with wonder, feeling, and sorrow.  They seemed to hold him to account; they begged, they demanded of him not to break the spell, and, in response, the hot blood in the veins of the musician surged back, his pride flared up again, his eyes turned on Corbin’s like those of a dog to his master’s.  Under their spell the music soared, trembling, paused and soared again, thrilling those who heard it with its grief and tenderness.

Edouard’s heart leaped with triumph.  “The man knows,” he whispered to the violin; “he understands us.  He knows.”

The people, leaning with their elbows on the tables before them, the waiters listening with tolerant smiles, the musicians following Edouard with anxious pride, saw only a young man with his arm thrown heavily across the back of his chair, who was looking up at Edouard with a steady, searching gaze.  But Edouard saw in him both a disciple and a master.  He saw that this man was lifted up and carried with him, that he understood the message of the music.  The notes of the violin sank lower and lower, until they melted into the silence of the room, and the people, freed of the spell the music had put upon them, applauded generously.  Edouard placed his violin under his arm, and with his eyes, which had never left Corbin’s face, still fastened upon his, bowed low to him, and Corbin raised his head and nodded gravely.  It was as though they were the only people in the room.  As Edouard retreated his face was shining with triumph, for he knew that the other had understood him, and that the other knew that he knew.

That night until he fell asleep, and all of the day following, the beautiful face of Miss Warriner troubled Edouard, and the thought of her alternately thrilled and depressed him.  One moment he mocked at himself for presuming to think that his simple art could reach the depths of such a nature, and the next he stirred himself to hope that he should see her once again, and that he should succeed where he had failed.

The music had moved Corbin so deeply that when he awoke the day following the effect of it still hung upon him.  It seemed to him as though all he had been trying to tell Miss Warriner of his love for her, and which he had failed to make her understand in the last three months, had been expressed in the one moment of this song.  It was that in it which had so enchanted him.  It was as though he had listened to his own deepest and most sacred thoughts, uttered for the first time convincingly, and by a stranger.  Why was it, he asked himself, that this unknown youth could translate another’s feelings into music, when he himself could not put them into words?  He was walking in Piccadilly, deep in this thought, when a question came to him which caused him to turn rapidly into Green Park, where he could consider it undisturbed.