The little dinner party passed off pleasantly, and as old Sanders lighted his cigar he confided to Diotti, with a braggart's assurance, that when he was a youngster he was the best fiddler for twenty miles around. ``I tell you there is nothing like a fiddler to catch a petticoat,'' he said, with a sharp nudge of his elbow into Diotti's ribs.
``When I played the Devil's Dream there wasn't a girl in the country could keep from dancing, and `Rosalie, the Prairie Flower,' brought them on their knees to me every time;'' then after a pause, ``I don't believe people fiddle as well nowadays as they did in the good old times,'' and he actually sighed in remembrance.
Mildred smiled and whispered to Diotti. He took his violin from the case and began playing. It seemed to her as if from above showers of silvery merriment were falling to earth. The old man watched intently, and as the player changed from joy to pity, from love back to happiness, Sanders never withdrew his gaze. His bead-like eyes followed the artist; he saw each individual finger rise and fall, and the bow bound over the finger-board, always avoiding, never coming in contact with the middle string. Suddenly the old man beat a tattoo on his cranium and closed his eyes, apparently deep in thought.
As Diotti ceased playing, Sanders applauded vociferously, and moving toward the violinist, said: ``Magnificent!
I never have heard better playing!
What is the make of your violin?''
Diotti, startled at this question, hurriedly put the instrument in its case;
``Oh, it is a famous make,'' he drawled.
``Will you let me examine it?'' said the elder, placing his hand on the case.
``I never allow any one to touch my violin,'' replied Diotti, closing the cover quickly.
``Why; is there a magic charm about it, that you fear other hands may discover?'' queried the old man.
``I prefer that no one handle it,'' said the virtuoso commandingly.
``Very well,'' sighed the old man resignedly, ``there are violins and violins, and no doubt yours comes within that category,'' this half sneeringly.
``Uncle,'' interposed Mildred tactfully, ``you must not be so persistent. Signor Diotti prizes his violin highly and will not allow any one to play upon it but himself,'' and the look of relief on Diotti's face amply repaid her.
Mr. Wallace came in at that moment, and with perfunctory interest in his guest, invited him to examine the splendid collection of revolutionary relics in his study.
``I value them highly,'' said the banker, ``both for patriotic and ancestral reasons. The Wallaces fought and died for their country, and helped to make this land what it is.''
The father and the violinist went to the study, leaving the daughter and old Sanders in the drawing-room. The old man, seating himself in a large armchair, said: ``Mildred, my dear, I do not wonder at the enormous success of this Diotti.''
``He is a wonderful artist,'' replied Mildred; ``critics and public alike place him among the greatest of his profession.''
``He is a good-looking young fellow, too,'' said the old man.
``I think he is the handsomest man I ever have seen,'' replied the girl.
``Where does he come from?'' continued Sanders.
``St. Casciano, a small town in Tuscany.''
``Has he a family?''
``Only a sister, whom he loves dearly,'' good-naturedly answered the girl.
``And no one else?'' continued the seemingly garrulous old man.
``None that I have heard him speak of. No, certainly not,'' rather impetuously replied Mildred.
``How old is he?'' continued the old man.
``Twenty-eight next month; why do you wish to know?'' she quizzically asked.
``Simply idle curiosity,'' old Sanders carelessly replied. ``I wonder if he is in love with any one in Tuscany?''
``Of course not; how could he be?'' quickly rejoined the girl.
``And why not?'' added old Sanders.
``Why? Because, because--he is in love with some one in America.''
