When Mr. Wallace came to his residence the next morning, his daughter met him with a fond display of filial affection; they walked into the drawing-room, hand in hand; he saw a picture of the violinist on the piano. ``Who's the handsome young fellow?'' he asked, looking at the portrait with the satisfaction a man feels when he sees a splendid type of his own sex.
``That is Angelo Diotti, the famous violinist,'' she said, but she could not add another word.
As they strolled through the rooms he noticed no less than three likenesses of the Tuscan. And as they passed her room he saw still another on the chiffonnier.
``Seems to me the house is running wild with photographs of that fiddler,'' he said.
For the first time in her life she was self-conscious: ``I will wait for a more opportune time to tell him,'' she thought.
In the scheme of Diotti's appearance in New York there were to be two more concerts. One was to be given that evening. Mildred coaxed her father to accompany her to hear the violinist. Mr. Wallace was not fond of music; ``it had been knocked out of him on the farm up in Vermont, when he was a boy,'' he would apologetically explain, and besides he had the old puritanical abhorrence of stage people--putting them all in one class--as puppets who danced for played or talked for an idle and unthinking public.
So it was with the thought of a wasted evening that he accompanied Mildred to the concert.
The entertainment was a repetition of the others Diotti had given, and at its end, Mildred said to her father:
``Come, I want to congratulate Signor Diotti in person.''
``That is entirely unnecessary,'' he replied.
``It is my desire,'' and the girl led the unwilling parent back of the scenes and into Diotti's dressing-room.
Mildred introduced Diotti to her father, who after a few commonplaces lapsed into silence. The daughter's enthusiastic interest in Diotti's performance and her tender solicitude for his weariness after the efforts of the evening, quickly attracted the attention of Mr. Wallace and irritated him exceedingly.
When father and daughter were seated in their carriage and were hurriedly driving home, he said: ``Mildred, I prefer that you have as little to say to that man as possible.''
``What do you object to in him?'' she asked.
``Everything. Of what use is a man who dawdles away his time on a fiddle; of what benefit is he to mankind? Do fiddlers build cities? Do they delve into the earth for precious metals? Do they sow the seed and harvest the grain?
No, no; they are drones--the barnacles of society.''
``Father, how can you advance such an argument? Music's votaries offer no apologies for their art. The husbandman places the grain within the breast of Mother Earth for man's material welfare; God places music in the heart of man for his spiritual development. In man's spring time, his bridal day, music means joy. In man's winter time, his burial day, music means comfort.
The heaven-born muse has added to the happiness of the world. Diotti is a great genius. His art brings rest and tranquillity to the wearied and despairing,'' and she did not speak again until they had reached the house.
The lights were turned low when father and daughter went into the drawing-room. Mr. Wallace felt that he had failed to convince Mildred of the utter worthlessness of fiddlers, big or little, and as one dissatisfied with the outcome of a contest, re-entered the lists.
``He has visited you?''
``Yes, father.''
``Often?''
``Yes, father,'' spoken calmly.
``Often?'' louder and more imperiously repeated the father, as if there must be some mistake.
``Quite often,'' and she sat down, knowing the catechizing would be likely to continue for some minutes.
``How many times, do you think?''
She rose, walked into the hallway; took the card basket from the table, returned and seated herself beside her father, emptying its contents into her lap. She picked up a card. It read ``Angelo Diotti,'' and she called the name aloud. She took up another and again her lips voiced the beloved name.
``Angelo Diotti,'' she continued, repeating at intervals for a minute. Then looking at her father: ``He has called thirty-two times; there are thirty-one cards here and on one occasion he forgot his card-case.''
``Thirty-two!'' said the father, rising angrily and pacing the floor.
``Yes, thirty-two. I remember all of them distinctly.''
Her father came over to her, half coaxingly, half seriously. ``Mildred, I wish his visits to cease; people will imagine there is a romantic attachment between you.''
``There is, father,'' out it came, ``he loves me and I love him.''
``What!'' shouted Mr. Wallace, and then severely, ``this must cease immediately.''
She rose quietly and led her father over to the mantel. Placing a hand on each of his shoulders she said:
``Father, I will obey you implicitly if you can name a reasonable objection to the man I love. But you can not.
I love him with my whole soul. I love him for the nobility of his character, and because there is none other in the world for him, nor for me.''
