“You have evidently been very well taught,” said the other,--“unusually well; and you have a very considerable technic.” And Helen was only more uncomfortable than ever; evidently the man would have liked to add a “but” to that sentence, and the girl felt as if she had come near an icicle in the course of her evening's triumph. However, she was now still more curious to hear the rest of his opinion. Half convinced yet that it must be favorable in the end, she said: “I should not in the least mind your speaking plainly; the admiration of people who do not understand music I really do not care for.” And then as Mr. Howard fixed his deep, clear eyes upon her, Helen involuntarily lowered hers a little. “If you really want my opinion,” said the other, “you shall have it. But you must remember that it is yourself who leads me to the bad taste of being serious in company.” That last remark was in Helen's own style, and she looked interested. For the rest, she felt that she had gotten into grave trouble by her question; but it was too late to retreat now. “I will excuse you,” she said. “I wish to know.” “Very well, then,” said Mr. Howard; “the truth is that I did not care for your selection.” Helen gave a slight start. “If that is all the trouble, I need not worry,” she thought; and she added easily, “The sonata is usually considered one of Beethoven's very greatest works, Mr. Howard.” “I am aware of that,” said the other; “but do you know how Beethoven came to compose it?” Helen had the happy feeling of a person of moderate resources when the conversation turns to one of his specialties. “Yes,” she said; “I have read how he said 'So pocht das Schicksal auf die Pforte.' [Footnote: “So knocks Fate upon the door.”] Do you understand that, Mr. Howard?” “Only partly,” said the other, very gently; “do you?” And Helen felt just then that she had made a very awkward blunder indeed. “Fate is a very dreadful thing to understand, Miss Davis,” the other continued, slowly. “When one has heard the knock, he does not forget it, and even the echo of it makes him tremble.” “I suppose then,” said Helen, glibly, trying to save herself, “that you think the sonata is too serious to be played in public?” “Not exactly,” was the answer; “it depends upon the circumstances. There are always three persons concerned, you know. In this case, as you have pardoned me for being serious, there is in the first place the great genius with his sacred message; you know how he learned that his life work was to be ruined by deafness, and how he poured his agony and despair into his greatest symphony, and into this sonata. That is the first person, Miss Davis.” He paused for a moment; and Helen took a deep breath, thinking that it was the strangest conversation she had ever been called upon to listen to during an evening's merriment. Yet she did not smile, for the man's deep, resonant voice fascinated her. “And the second?” she asked.