A pale boy of twelve, clad in an
old-fashioned suit of ruby velvet; a boy with huge, black eyes, and long
curls of the same colour, is standing by an oak music-stand, holding before
him a Cremona violin, whose rich colouring is relieved admirably by the
beautiful old point lace with which the boy's doublet is slashed. It is a
charming picture. The famous artist who painted it considers it his best
portrait, and Lady Greville is proud of it.
But her pride is of the same quality as that which made her value my
presence. I was in her eyes merely the complement of her famous fiddle.
I heard her one day express a certain feeling of relief at my approaching
departure.
'You regret having taken him up?' asked her nephew curiously.
'No,' she said, 'that would be folly. He repays all one's trouble, as soon
as he touches his fiddle--but I don't like him.'
'He can play like the great Pan,' says Felix.
'Yes, and like Pan he is half a beast.'
'You may make a musician out of him,' answered the young man, examining
his pink nails with a certain admiration, 'but you will never make him a
gentleman.'
'Perhaps not,' said Lady Greville carelessly. 'Still, Felix, he is very
refined.
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