This was one of the questions, though not the most important, that Miss Tellon was asking herself as she rose with the other members of her sex to leave the men to their cigars. But in the drawing-room little Lucille Cowan claimed her to talk over her party, and they were still discussing gowns and favors when the men entered half an hour later.
“Talking shop?” came Albert Crevel’s voice.
Lucille looked up.
“How mean of you!” she giggled. “Oh, I know what you mean.”
“It doesn’t matter,” replied Crevel, seating himself. “I’ll be glad to listen anyway. Old Mannerton’s been riding around the dining-room on the Will-to-Live and anything would entertain me after that.”
They talked, but Veronica was silent. She was telling herself that Crevel had come over to them only because he thought it was the proper thing to do, and she was irritated by his presence; the sound of his voice annoyed her. She even allowed a smile of bitterness to appear on her lips, then, remembering that other people saw such things and made gossip of them, she speedily erased it. Her attention was caught by a movement in the opposite corner of the room, and presently she saw a man with a violin under his arm emerge from the group and walk toward the piano. It was the celebrated virtuoso Cammini, who was to play for them.
In another moment she was under the spell of his music, and it was with a feeling of gratitude that she gave herself up to his caress of the emotions. Listening with lowered head and downcast eyes, she was filled with a sense of something indefinable, of freedom and joy combined with a painful restlessness, and she felt the tears come to her eyes, then, as the music came to an end and a sound of politely subdued applause ran over the room, an indecipherable, powerful longing arose in her breast and threatened to choke her. She raised her head to look at the musician. He was a young man, not older than herself, with white face and black hair and eyes that glowed.
“It is certain that he has loved,” thought Veronica. “Or, at least, that he can love. And why not me? It can’t be that one must be superior to inspire it. Why haven’t I the strength to do what I want to do? Weak little fool!”
She began to study the musician as he stood talking with his accompanist. “Of course he would have the face of a poet,” she said to herself. “He has love, and he has his art, and I... I have a checkbook. And that is why I can never, never know.”
Lucille’s voice sounded behind her:
“Yes, it’s frightful. Mamma says they are getting quite too independent. Cammini refuses to play for anything less than a thousand dollars, and they say he makes a hundred thousand a year. Just think of it! Papa says it’s the income of two million.”
Then Crevel’s good-humored reply:
“Well, isn’t it worth it?”
Miss Tellon turned away in disgust. Perhaps they were right, but why should she be reminded of it at the moment? She looked at Cammini. A thousand dollars a night! A hundred thousand a year! Why, he was a man of wealth, like her father. No doubt his daughter, if he should have any, would be forced into a marriage of convenience just as she, Veronica Tellon, was. Either that or a miserable fortune hunter. Was there no poetry or love left in the world?
When Cammini drew his bow across the strings again, the music had lost all magic for her. Throughout the evening she was moody and restless; she even allowed herself to be openly rude to Albert Crevel; and when the guests were gone she sought her room only to lie awake until dawn.
The middle of the following afternoon found her in the library reading a novel. She had reached page one hundred and seventy-three, where the hero first tells the heroine that he already has a wife, and she was therefore deeply absorbed in the story, when she suddenly became aware that something was annoying her. She frowned and tried to read on, but the annoyance deepened. What could it be? She looked up and opened her ears, and recognized the disturbing sound.
“Who is that at the piano?” she demanded in a tone of irritation, turning to her mother’s secretary at a desk.
“Man tuning it,” replied that lady, who was a Woman’s Rights advocate and therefore would not add, “Miss Tellon,” as a respectful secretary should.
Veronica returned to her book, but found it impossible to go on. The monotonously repeated notes, cccc, eeee, gggg, jangled in her ears. Then the thought of the piano brought Cammini to her mind, Cammini brought the night before, and that brought Albert Crevel. And the thought of Albert Crevel, and others associated with him, had made her miserable the past six months — a crescendo of suffering. She arose suddenly with an impatient gesture, threw down her book and strolled aimlessly into the drawing room.
The piano-tuner did not even turn as she entered; probably he did not hear her. He had removed the top of the instrument and was busy banging keys and doing something with a wrench inside. Miss Tellon, impelled by a foolish and perverse felling of anger, approached and addressed him sharply:
“Is it necessary to make so much noise?”
He turned in surprise and looked at her.
“Sure. Awful, ain’t it?” he said cheerfully, and went to work again.
Completely disarmed, Miss Tellon stood and watched him for some time in silence. Then she sat down on a chair and continued to watch him. He was a rather good-looking young man with wavy blond hair, laughing blue eyes and a boyish face. She couldn’t tell much about his mouth because it was screwed to one side with intentness as he listened to the noises he was producing, but she saw that his lips were full of color, as was indeed his whole face. She smiled as the thought struck her that he was just such a person as the philosopher had in mind when he called man “the animal with red cheeks.”
She amused herself with speculations concerning him. Was he married? Probably not. On second thought, certainly not. How old was he? Um — between twenty-five and twenty-six. What nationality was he? German-Swedish or Swedish-American or German. What was his home like? But here she failed utterly. She tried to picture a flat, but she knew very little about them; she had never been in one. She was trying to decide whether or not his father and mother were living when she suddenly became aware that he had stopped banging the keys and was putting on the top. That finished, he gathered his tools together and stuffed them in a little black leather case and picked up his hat.
Miss Tellon spoke abruptly:
“Would you mind telling me your name?”
He turned in surprise, and after a moment answered simply:
“Carlsen. George Carlsen.”
“Oh,” said Veronica. Then, “You are a Swede, I suppose.”
“Yes,” smiled the young man, with his blue eyes on her.
“You must excuse me,” observed Miss Tellon with a touch of confusion, “but I was wondering about you.”
“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Carlsen. And seeming to regard this remark as an invitation to remain, he put down his leather case and seated himself on the piano bench.
“I’m always glad to talk to the ladies,” he observed amiably.
Miss Tellon managed not to smile.
“It is a very estimable quality in a gentleman,” she said.
“Sure. And valuable, too, in my line. They all like it, especially the married ones. Lord, how they sit and toss it out! The young ones too sometimes.”