She stared at Edouard with
a pained expression of perplexity and doubt.
"He shows no lack of feeling," she said, critically, "but his technic
is not equal to Ysaye's."
"Good God!" Corbin gasped. He sank away from Miss Warriner and stared
at her with incredulous eyes.
"His technic," he repeated, "is not equal to Ysaye's?" He gave a
laugh which might have been a sob, and sat up, suddenly, with his
head erect and his shoulders squared. He had the shaken look of one
who has recovered from a dangerous illness. But when he spoke again
it was in the accents of every-day politeness.
At an early hour the following morning, Mrs. Warriner and her
daughter left Waterloo Station on the steamer-train for Southampton,
and Corbin attended them up to the moment of the train's departure.
He concerned himself for their comfort as conscientiously as he had
always done throughout the last three months, when he had been their
travelling-companion; nothing could have been more friendly, more
sympathetic, than his manner. This effort, which Mrs. Warriner was
sure cost him much, touched her deeply. But when he shook Miss
Warriner's hand and she said, "Good-by, and write to us before you go
to the Philippines," Corbin for the first time stammered in some
embarrassment.
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