significant tribute, "Dis night we shall blay only Schubert!"

Sylvia heaved a sigh of relief as the four gathered in front of the
music-racks at the other end of the room, tuning and scraping. Young
Mr. Saunders, evidently elated that his opportunity had come, leaned
toward Aunt Victoria and began talking in low tones. Once or twice
they laughed a little, looking towards Professor Kennedy.

Then old Reinhardt, gravely pontifical, rapped with his bow on his
rack, lifted his violin to his chin, and--an obliterating sponge was
passed over Sylvia's memory. All the queer, uncomfortable talk, the
unpleasant voices, the angry or malicious or uneasy eyes, the unkindly
smiling lips, all were washed away out of her mind. The smooth,
swelling current of the music was like oil on a wound. As she listened
and felt herself growing drowsy, it seemed to her that she was
being floated away, safely away from the low-ceilinged room where
personalities clashed, out to cool, star-lit spaces.

All that night in her dreams she heard only old Reinhardt's angel
voice proclaiming, amid the rich murmur of assent from the other
strings:

[Illustration]




CHAPTER VI

THE SIGHTS OF LA CHANCE