"No, no," he said, "I cannot eat more. I have a lump there--in my throat. I am too excited. I feel that he is marching to his great triumph. My little Geoffrey." He rose, knocking his chair over, and strode about the confined space. "_Sacramento_! But I am a wicked old man. I was sorrowful because I was so dull, so stupid that I could not write a sonata. I blamed the good God. _Mea maxima culpa_. And at once he sends me a partridge in a halo of love, and the news of my dear son's glory----" Sonia stopped him, her plump hands on the front of his old corrugated frock-coat. "And your glory, too, dear godfather. If it hadn't been for you, where would Geoffrey be? And who realises it more than Geoffrey? Would you like to see a bit of his letter? Only a little bit--for there's a lot of rubbish in it that I would be ashamed of anybody who thinks well of him to read--but just a little bit." Her hand was at the broad belt joining blouse and skirt. Angelo, towering above her, smiled with an old man's tenderness at the laughing love in her dark eyes, and at the happiness in her young, comely face. Her features were generous, and her mouth frankly large, but her lips were fresh and her teeth white and even, and to the old fellow she looked all that man could dream of the virginal mother-to-be of great sons. She fished the letter from her belt, scanned and folded it carefully. "There! Read." And Angelo Fardetti read: "I've learned my theory and technique, and God knows what--things that only they could teach me--from professors with world-famous names. But for real inspiration, for the fount of music itself, I come back all the time to our dear old _maestro_, Angelo Fardetti. I can't for the life of me define what it is, but he opened for me a secret chamber behind whose concealed door all these illustrious chaps have walked unsuspectingly. It seems silly to say it because, beyond a few odds and ends, the dear old man has composed nothing, but I am convinced that I owe the essentials of everything I do in music to his teaching and influence." Angelo gave her back the folded letter without a word, and turned and stood again by the window, staring unseeingly at the prim, semi-detached villas opposite. Sonia, having re-hidden her treasure, stole up to him. Feeling her near, he stretched out a hand and laid it on her head. "God is very wonderful," said he--"very mysterious. Oh, and so good!" He fumbled, absently and foolishly, with her well-ordered hair, saying nothing more. After a while she freed herself gently and led him back to his partridge.