"Yes, yes, Gina. Here, shake hands with him. Leon, they say a voice like a fountain. Gina Berg--eh, Ginsberg--is how you stage-named her? You hear, mamma, how fancy--Gina Berg? We go hear her, eh?" There was about Miss Gina Berg, whose voice could soar to the tirra-lirra of a lark and then deepen to mezzo, something of the actual slimness of the poor, maligned Elsa so long buried beneath the buxomness of divas. She was like a little flower that in its crannied nook keeps dewy longest. "How do you do, Leon Kantor?" There was a whir through her English of three acquired languages. "How do _you_ do?" "We--father and I--traveled once all the way from Brussels to Dresden to hear you. It was worth it. I shall never forget how you played the 'Humoresque.' It made me laugh and cry." "You like Brussels?" She laid her little hand to her heart, half closing her eyes. "I will never be so happy again as with the sweet little people of Brussels." "I, too, love Brussels. I studied there four years with Ahrenfest." "I know you did. My teacher, Lyndahl, in Berlin, was his brother-in-law." "You have studied with Lyndahl?" "He is my master." "I--Will I some time hear you sing?" "I am not yet great. When I am foremost like you, yes." "Gina--Gina Berg; that is a beautiful name to make famous." "You see how it is done? Gins--berg. Gina Berg." "Clev--er!" They stood then smiling across a chasm of the diffidence of youth, she fumbling at the great fur pelt out of which her face flowered so dewily. "I--Well--we--we--are in the fourth box--I guess we had better be going--Fourth box, left." He wanted to find words, but for consciousness of self, could not. "It's a wonderful house out there waiting for you, Leon Kantor, and you--you're wonderful, too!" "The--flowers--thanks!" "My father, he sent them. Come, father--quick!" Suddenly there was a tight tensity seemed to crowd up the little room. "Abrahm--quick--get Hancock. That first row of chairs--has got to be moved. There he is, in the wings. See that the piano ain't dragged down too far! Leon, got your mute in your pocket? Please, Mr. Ginsberg--you must excuse--Here, Leon, is your glass of water; drink it, I say. Shut that door out there, boy, so there ain't a draught in the wings. Here, Leon, your violin. Got your neckerchief? Listen how they're shouting! It's for you--Leon--darlink--Go!" The center of that vast human bowl which had shouted itself out, slim, boylike, and in his supreme isolation, Leon Kantor drew bow and a first thin, pellucid, and perfect note into a silence breathless to receive it. Throughout the arduous flexuosities of the Mendelssohn E minor concerto, singing, winding from tonal to tonal climax, and out of the slow movement which is like a tourniquet twisting the heart into the spirited _allegro molto vivace_, it was as if beneath Leon Kantor's fingers the strings were living vein-cords, youth, vitality, and the very foam of exuberance racing through them.