An hour of triumph.

When Paul rose and stood before this audience, violin in hand, he certainly presented quite a strong contrast to his rival.

Paul Beck, as we have already said, was a tall, thin, lantern-jawed man, clad in solemn black, his face of a sickly, sallow hue.

Philip was of fair height, for his age, with a bright, expressive face, his hair of a chestnut shade, and looking the very picture of boyish health.  His very appearance made a pleasant impression upon those present.

“He’s a nice-looking boy,” thought more than one, “but he looks too young to know much about the violin.”

But when Philip began to play, there was general surprise.  In a dancing-tune there was not much chance for the exhibition of talent, but his delicate touch and evident perfect mastery of his instrument were immediately apparent.  In comparison, the playing of Paul Beck seemed wooden and mechanical.

There was a murmur of approbation, and when Philip had finished his first part of the program, he was saluted by hearty applause, which he acknowledged by a modest and graceful bow.

Paul Beck’s face, as his young rival proceeded in his playing, was an interesting study.  He was very disagreeably surprised.  He had made up his mind that Philip could not play at all, or, at any rate, would prove to be a mere tyro and bungler, and he could hardly believe his ears when he heard the sounds which Philip evoked from his violin.

In spite of his self-conceit, he secretly acknowledged that Philip even now was his superior, and in time would leave him so far behind that there could be no comparison between them.

It was not a pleasant discovery for a man who had prided himself for many years on his superiority as a musician.  If it had been a man of established fame it would have been different, but to be compelled to yield the palm to an unknown boy, was certainly mortifying.

When he heard the applause that followed Philip’s performance, and remembered that none had been called forth by his own, he determined that he would not play again that evening.  He did not like to risk the comparison which he was sure would be made between himself and Philip.  So, when Andrew Blake came up to him and asked him to play for the next dance, he shook his head.  “I don’t feel well enough,” he said “I thought I was stronger than I am.”

“Do you want the boy to play all the rest of the evening?”

“Yes; he plays very fairly,” said Beck, in a patronizing manner, which implied his own superiority.

“There can be no doubt about that,” said Andrew Blake, with emphasis, for he understood Mr. Beck’s meaning, and resented it as one of the warmest admirers of the boy-musician whom he had engaged.

But Paul Beck would not for the world have revealed his real opinion of Philip’s merits.

“Yes,” he continued, “he plays better than I expected.  I guess you can get along with him.”