That night until he fell asleep, and all of the day following, the
beautiful face of Miss Warriner troubled Edouard, and the thought of
her alternately thrilled and depressed him. One moment he mocked at
himself for presuming to think that his simple art could reach the
depths of such a nature, and the next he stirred himself to hope that
he should see her once again, and that he should succeed where he had
failed.
The music had moved Corbin so deeply that when he awoke the day
following the effect of it still hung upon him. It seemed to him as
though all he had been trying to tell Miss Warriner of his love for
her, and which he had failed to make her understand in the last three
months, had been expressed in the one moment of this song. It was
that in it which had so enchanted him. It was as though he had
listened to his own deepest and most sacred thoughts, uttered for the
first time convincingly, and by a stranger. Why was it, he asked
himself, that this unknown youth could translate another's feelings
into music, when he himself could not put them into words? He was
walking in Piccadilly, deep in this thought, when a question came to
him which caused him to turn rapidly into Green Park, where he could
consider it undisturbed.
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