nd counters, by jumping or otherwise, that that didn't make
the slightest difference: the principle was the same.

Sally's mother did not share her friend's fancies. But she had not
confidence enough in the stability of the earth's crust to give way
freely to her liberalism, drive a coach-and-six through the Classes,
and talk to him freely about the shop. She did not know what a Social
Seismologist would say on the point. So she contented herself with
treating him as a matter of course, as a slight acquaintance whom she
saw often, merely asking him if that was he. To which the reply was
in the affirmative, like question-time in the Commons.

"Is this the Strad? Let's have it out," says Sally. For Mr. Bradshaw
possessed a Strad. He brought it out of its coffin with something of
the solicitude Petrarch might have shown to the remains of Laura, and
when he had rough-sketched its condition of discord and corrected
the drawing, danced a Hungarian dance on it, and apologized for his
presumption in doing so. He played so very well that it certainly did
seem rather a cruel trick of fate that gave him nerves in his head.
Sally then said, might she look at it? and played chords and runs,
just to feel what it was like. Her comment was that she wished her
viola was a Strad.

We record all this to show what, perhaps, is hardly worth the
showing--a wavering in a man's mind, and that man a young one. Are
they not at it all day long, all of them? Do they do anything but
waver?

When Sally said she wished her viola was a Strad, Mr. Bradshaw's mind
shortly became conscious that some passing spook, of a low nature, had
murmured almost inaudibly that it was a good job _his_ Strad wasn't
a viola. "Because, you see," added the spook, "that quashes all
speculation whether you, Mr. Bradshaw, are glad or sorry you needn't
lay your instrument at this young lady's feet. Now, if immediately
after you first had that overwhelming impression of her--got
metaphorically torpedoed, don't you know?--such a wish as hers had
been expressed, you probably would have laid both your Strad and your
heart at her feet, and said take my all!" But now that he had been so
far disillusioned by Sally's robust and breezy treatment of the
position, he was not quite sure the spook had not something to say for
himself. Mr. Bradshaw was content to come down off his high horse, and
to plod along the dull path of a mere musical evening visitor at
a very nice house. Plea