Winton said:

"Rum-looking Johnnies one sees here!"

"That was the violinist I told you of--Fiorsen."

"Oh! Ah!" But he had evidently forgotten.

The thought that Fiorsen should have picked her out of all that audience
for remembrance subtly flattered her vanity. She lost her ruffled
feeling. Though her father thought his dress awful, it was really rather
becoming. He would not have looked as well in proper English clothes.
Once, at least, during the next two days, she noticed the short, square
young man who had been walking with him, and was conscious that he
followed her with his eyes.

And then a certain Baroness von Maisen, a cosmopolitan friend of Aunt
Rosamund's, German by marriage, half-Dutch, half-French by birth, asked
her if she had heard the Swedish violinist, Fiorsen. He would be, she
said, the best violinist of the day, if--and she shook her head. Finding
that expressive shake unquestioned, the baroness pursued her thoughts:

"Ah, these musicians! He wants saving from himself. If he does not halt
soon, he will be lost. Pity! A great talent!"

Gyp looked at her steadily and asked:

"Does he drink, then?"

"Pas mal! But there are things besides drink, ma chere."