'_A la bonne heure!_ I perceive you also speak it. Is that why you wished
to be presented, to hear my criticisms?'
'Let me answer that question when you have answered mine.'
She glanced curiously over her feathered fan, then with the slightest
upward inclination of her statuesque shoulders--'I admire your books; but
are your women quite just? I prefer your playing.'
'That is better, Madame! It was to talk of that I came.'
'Your playing?'
'My violin.'
'You want me to look at it? It is a Cremona?'
'It is not a Cremona; but if you like, I will give it you.'
Her dark eyes shone out in amazed amusement.
'You are eccentric, Monsieur! but your nation has a privilege of
eccentricity. At least, you amuse me; and I have wearied myself enough this
long evening. Show me your violin; I am something of a _virtuosa_.'
I took the instrument from its case, handed it to her in silence, watching
her gravely. She received it with the dexterous hands of a musician, looked
at the splendid stains on the back, then bent over towards the light in a
curious scrutiny of the little, faded signature of its maker, the _fecit_
of an obscure Bavarian of the seventeenth century; and it was a long time
before she raised her eyes.
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