"Klotz," said my host, pouring me a glass of wine, "should have made a mark, but----" "Damn Klotz!" "That has been done, Pest. The Bricklayers' Union, or something equally esthetic, took exception to him for one reason or another, and prevailed upon its sister-cabal to debar him from the big orchestras. To offend your Union, dear boy, is to accomplish the total eclipse of your future. Even genius to-day is subject to regulations. Klotz is in a worse position than a clerk with a Board School education trying to secure employment in a London bank." "Confound it!" I said, "there must be some spheres reserved for gentlemen." His twinkling eyes steadied, and a dreamy look crept into them. "Pest," he murmured, "some day England is going to thank God for the gentlemen--who were educated at Board Schools. Listen!--the cellist is playing Saint-Saëns." Dinner--or the mess of foodstuffs dignified by the name--was almost finished when Klotz, the violinist, started one of the rare melodies which Wagner permitted himself--the Song to the Evening Star. It was being beautifully played--even I would have admitted that--but I could not account for the troubled look that crept into my companion's face, driving the gayety and the whimsicality from it as a cloud obscures the sunlight. "Klotz," he said anxiously, "is in great sorrow." "How the deuce," I muttered, with a feeling of creepiness stealing over me, "can you tell that? Do you read it in his face?" He shook his head. "Listen!" he said; "can't you hear it? Can't you feel the tears in it?" And in spite of myself I remained silent, held irresistibly by the double fascination of the German's artistry and the sense of mystery engendered by Norman. The last sob of the G string quivered to its finish. The crowd applauded perfunctorily, then applied themselves to the more essential things of life--food, wine and noise. Rousing myself from the reverie into which I had fallen, I turned to Norman, and found his chair vacated. I started. He had reached the platform, and was talking earnestly to the violinist. Half-contemptuous and half-interested, I watched the pantomime as they talked. Norman's hands were emphasizing some point, and every gesture was a pleasure to the eye; the musician was protesting, but with steadily abating determination. Then the scene came to a climax, and the German disappeared. Holding the violin in his arms, Basil Norman mounted the platform, the fingers of his left hand picking quiet, pizzicato notes from the strings. "My friends----" His voice traveled like sound on the ocean at twilight; the room subsided into silence, and diners craned their necks to see him. The woman with the shoulders brought them to a standstill, like an electric fan that had lost its current.