whether you want it or not. Now art is different. You go to see pictures when you wish to.”
Mostyn did not notice the criticism on music itself, but added in a soft, disapproving way: “That man has no music in him. Do you know that was one of Mendelssohn’s delicious dreams. This is how it should have been rendered,” and he went impulsively to the piano and then the sweet monotonous cadences and melodious reveries slipped from his long white fingers till the whole room was permeated with a delicious sense of moonlit solitude and conversation was stilled in its languor. The young man had played his own dismissal, but it was an effective one, and he complimented himself on his readiness to seize opportunities for display, and on his genius in satisfying them.
“I think I astonished them a little,” he mused, “and I wonder what that pretty, cousin of mine thought of the music and the musician. I fancy we shall be good friends; she is proud—that is no fault; and she has very decided opinions—which might be a great fault; but I think I rather astonished them.”
To such reflections he stepped rather pompously down the avenue, not at all influenced by any premonition that his satisfactory feelings might be imperfectly shared. Yet silence was the first result of his departure. Judge Rawdon took out his pocketbook and began to study its entries. Ruth Bayard rose and closed the piano. Ethel lifted a magazine, while it was Madam who finally asked in an impatient tone:
“What do you think of Frederick? I suppose, Edward, you have an opinion. Isn’t he a very clever man?”
“I should not wonder if he were, mother, clever to a fault.”
“I never heard a young man talk better.”
“He talked a great deal, but then, you know, he was not on his oath.”
“I’ll warrant every word he said.”
“Your warrant is fine surety, mother, but I am not bound to believe all I hear. You women can please yourselves.”
And with these words he left the women to find out, if they could, what manner of man their newly-found kinsman might be.
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