The pale blinds were
drawn down, and there was a delicious smell of flowers diffused everywhere.
A lady was lying on a sofa near the window, a handsome woman of about
thirty, whose dress was a miracle of lace and flimsiness.
The young man led me towards her, and she placed two delicate, jewelled
hands on my shoulders, looking me steadily in the face.
'Where did you learn to play like that, my boy?' she asked.
'I cannot remember when I could not fiddle, Madame,' I answered, and that
was true.
'The boy is a born musician, Felix,' said Lady Greville. 'Look at his
hands.'
And she held up mine to the young man's notice; he glanced at them
carelessly.
'Yes, Miladi,' said the young man, 'they are real violin hands. What were
you playing just now, my lad?'
'I don't know, sir,' I said. 'I play just what comes into my head.'
Lady Greville looked at her nephew with a glance of triumph.
'What did I tell you?' she cried. 'The boy is a genius, Felix. I shall have
him educated.'
'All your geese are swans, Auntie,' said the young man in English.
Lady Greville, however, ignored this thrust.
'Will you play for me now, my dear,' she said, 'as you did before--just
what comes into your head?'
I nodded, and was getting my fiddle to my chin, when she stopped me.
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