The quintet and the congratulations to the performers over, Mr. Whacker took pity on the thirsty Herr and ordered refreshments. Jones, finding among the rest a glass of double size, filled it and handed it to the ’cellist. “Goot!” cried he, with a luminous wink; “I play de big fiddle already.” Mary smiled, wondering what “already” could mean; but she had other things to occupy her thoughts. When the Don rose from his seat and laid his violin upon the piano, she had been struck with the serenity of his countenance, whence the music seemed to have chased every cloud. He was looking for some one. Yes, it was for her. Catching her eye, he filled a glass, or two, rather, and coming to her side and taking a seat, he expressed the hope that she had enjoyed the music. “More than I can express. You have convinced me that I have never heard any real music before. Do you know, your quintet was as pleasing to the eye as to the ear? You would have afforded a fine subject for a painter. Three young men, a lovely girl, and a grandfather, all bound together as one by the golden chains of harmony! You can’t imagine what a lovely picture you made.” “Thanks!” “Oh,” said she, smiling, “there were five of you, so I have paid you, at best, but one-fifth of a compliment.” “A vulgar fraction, as it were.” “Yes,” said she, laughing; then with eyes cast down, and in a hesitating voice, she added, “I am going to make a confession to you; will you promise not to think me _very_ foolish?” “Such an idea, I am sure—” “But, you know my friends all say I am so very sentimental,—that is to say, silly. You shake your head, but that is what they call me, and that is what it means.” “You do your friends injustice; but give me a specimen, that I may judge for myself.” “Do you promise not to agree with my friends?” “Most solemnly.” “Well, you must know there is something very pathetic to me about old age. The sight of an old man sympathizing with the young, hearing up bravely under the ills of life and his load of years, always touches me to the heart. Now, you and Mr. Frobisher and Mr. Waldteufel—well, I need not comment on your appearance. Lucy—well, Lucy was just too lovely. She had what I call her inspired look, and was simply beautiful.” And lifting her eyes for a second,—no, a second had been an age, compared with the duration of that glance so momentary and yet so intensely questioning,—she flashed him through and through. Through and through, yet saw nothing. The Don, felt he or not the shock of that electric glance, sat impassive, spoke no answer, looked no reply. She raised her eyes again to his. No, his look was not impassive; he was simply awaiting with interest the rest of her story. That, at least, was all she could see.