Out of so much musical chaff he winnowed only now and
then a grain of real ability. And Harmony had that. Scatchy and
the Big Soprano had been right--she had the real thing.
The short half-hour lesson had a way with Harmony of lengthening
itself to an hour or more, much to the disgust of the lady
secretary in the anteroom. On that Monday Harmony had pleased the
old man to one of his rare enthusiasms.
"Six months," he said, "and you will go back to your America and
show them how over here we teach violin. I will a
letter--letters-- give you, and you shall put on the programme,
of your concerts that you are my pupil, is it not so?"
Harmony was drawing on her worn gloves; her hands trembled a
little with the praise and excitement.
"If I can stay so long," she answered unsteadily.
"You must stay. Have I so long labored, and now before it is
finished you talk of going! Gott im Himmel!"
"It is a matter of money. My father is dead. And unless I find
something to do I shall have to go back."
The master had heard many such statements. They never ceased to
rouse his ire against a world that had money for everything but
music. He spent five minutes in indignant protest, then:--
"But you are clever and young, child. You will find a way to
stay. Perhaps I can now and then find a concert for you." It was
a lure he had thrown out before, a hook without a bait. It needed
no bait, being always eagerly swallowed.
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