But the artist in him forced him to
play all things well, and for his own comfort he would assure himself
that no doubt somewhere in the room someone was listening, someone
who thought more of the strange, elusive melodies of the Hungarian
folksongs than of the chefs entrees, and that for this unknown one he
must be true to himself and true to his work. Covertly, he would seek
out some face to which he could make the violin speak--not openly and
impertinently, as did Bardini, but secretly and for sympathy, so that
only one could understand. It pleased young Edouard to see such a one
raise her head as though she had heard her name spoken, and hold it
poised to listen, and turn slowly in her chair, so completely engaged
that she forgot the man at her elbow, and the food before her was
taken away untouched. It delighted him to think that she knew that
the music was speaking to her alone. But he would not have had her
think that the musician spoke, too--it was the soul of the music, not
his soul, that was reaching out to the pretty stranger. When his soul
spoke through the music it would not be, so he assured himself, to
such chatterers as gathered on the terrace of the Savoy Restaurant.
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