de--the poor
fellow had no "friends" in London, except Beau Lovelace, who was kind to
him, but who had no power in the musical world,--and, as Thelma's gentle
voice addressed him, he could have knelt and kissed her little shoe for
her sweet courtesy and kindness.

"Miladi," he said, with a profound reverence, "I will blay for you with
bleasure,--it will be a joy for ze music to make itself beautiful for
you!"

And with this fantastic attempt at a compliment, he seated himself at
the instrument and struck a crashing chord to command silence.

The hum of conversation grew louder than ever--and to Thelma's surprise
Lady Winsleigh seated herself by her and began to converse. Herr
Machtenklinken struck another chord,--in vain! The deafening clamor of
tongues continued, and Lady Winsleigh asked Thelma with much seeming
interest if the scenery was very romantic in Norway?

The girl colored deeply, and after a little hesitation, said--

"Excuse me,--I would rather not speak till the music is over. It is
impossible for a great musician to think his thoughts out properly
unless there is silence. Would it not be better to ask every one to
leave off talking while this gentleman plays?"

Clara Winsleigh looked amused. "My dear, you don't know them," she said
carelessly. "They would think me mad to propose such a thing! There are
always a few who listen."

Once more the pianist poised his hands over the keys of the
instrument,--Thelma looked a little troubled and grieved. Beau Lovelace
saw it, and acting on a sudden impulse, turned towards the chattering
crowds, and, holding up his hand, called, "Silence, please!"

There was an astonished hush. Beau laughed. "We want to hear some
music," he said, with the utmost coolness. "Conversation can be
continued afterwards." He then nodded cheerfully towards Herr
Machtenklinken, who, inspired by this open encouragement, started off
like a race-horse into one of the exquisite rambling preludes of Chopin.
Gradually, as he played, his plain face took upon itself a noble,
thoughtful, rapt expression,--his wild eyes softened,--his furrowed,
frowning brow smoothed,--and, meeting the grave, rare blue eyes of
Thelma, he smiled. His touch grew more and more delicate and
tender--from the prelude he wandered into a nocturne of plaintive and
exceeding melancholy, which he played with thrilling and exquisite
pathos--anon, he glided into one of those dreamily joyous yet sorrowful
mazurkas, that re