ile on
his lips. Then came an interval; and while orchestra and audience were
resting, I asked him if he were fond of music. He looked up without
distrust, bowed, and answered in a thin, gentle voice: "Certainly. I
know nothing about it, play no instrument, could never sing a note; but
fond of it! Who would not be?" His English was correct enough, but with
an emphasis not quite American nor quite foreign. I ventured to remark
that he did not care for Meyerbeer. He smiled.

"Ah!" he said, "I was asleep? Too bad of me. He is a little noisy--I
know so little about music. There is Bach, for instance. Would you
believe it, he gives me no pleasure? A great misfortune to be no
musician!" He shook his head.

I murmured, "Bach is too elevating for you perhaps."

"To me," he answered, "any music I like is elevating. People say some
music has a bad effect on them. I never found any music that gave me a
bad thought--no--no--quite the opposite; only sometimes, as you see, I go
to sleep. But what a lovely instrument the violin!" A faint flush came
on his parched cheeks. "The human soul that has left the body. A
curious thing, distant bugles at night have given me the same feeling."
The orchestra was now coming back, and, folding his hands, my neighbour
turned his eyes towards them. When the concert was over we came out
together. Waiting at the entrance was his dog.

"You have a beautiful dog!"

"Ah! yes. Freda. mia cara, da su mano!" The dog squatted on her
haunches, and lifted her paw in the vague, bored way of big dogs when
requested to perform civilities. She was a lovely creature--the purest
brindle, without a speck of white, and free from the unbalanced look of
most dogs of her breed.

"Basta! basta!" He turned to me apologetically. "We have agreed to
speak Italian; in that way I keep up the language; astonishing the number
of things that dog will understand!" I was about to take my leave, when
he asked if I would walk a little way with him--"If you are free, that
is." We went up the street with Freda on the far side of her master.

"Do you never 'play' here?" I asked him.

"Play? No. It must be very interesting; most exciting, but as a matter
of fact, I can't afford it. If one has very little, one is too nervous."

He had stopped in front of a small hairdresser's shop. "I live here," he
said, raising his hat again. "Au revoir!--unless I can offer you a glass
of tea. It's all ready. C