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 remind one of bright flowers growing in wild luxuriance over lonely and forsaken graves. The "celebrate" had reason to boast of himself--he was a perfect master of the instrument,--and as his fingers closed on the final chord, a hearty burst of applause rewarded his efforts, led by Lovelace and Lorimer. He responded by the usual bow,--but his real gratitude was all for Thelma. For her he had played his best--and he had seen tears in her lovely eyes. He felt as proud of her appreciation as of the ring he had received from the Tsar,--and bent low over the fair hand she extended to him.
"You must be very happy," she said, "to feel all those lovely sounds in your heart! I hope I shall see and hear you again some day,--I thank you so very much for the pleasure you have given me!"
Lady Winsleigh said nothing--and she listened to Thelma's words with a sort of contempt.
"Is the girl half-witted?" she thought. "She must be, or she would not be so absurdly enthusiastic! The man plays well,--but it is his profession to play well--it's no good praising these sort of people,--they are never grateful, and they always impose upon you." Aloud she asked Sir Philip-"Does Lady Errington play?"
"A little," he answered. "She sings."
At once there was a chorus of inanely polite voices round the piano, "Oh, do sing, Lady Errington! Please, give us one song!" and Sir Francis Lennox, sauntering up, fixed his languorous gaze on Thelma's face, murmuring, "You will not be so cruel as to refuse us such delight?"