Scarcely was the artist well started in his work, that afternoon, when the
music ceased. Presently, Mrs. Taine broke her watchful silence, with the
quite casual remark; "Your musical neighbor is still unknown to you, I
suppose?"
"Yes,"--he answered smiling, as though more to himself than at her,--"we
have never tried to make her acquaintance."
The woman caught him up quickly; "To make _her_ acquaintance? Why do you
say, '_her_,' if you do not know who it is?"
The artist was confused. "Did I say, _her_?" he questioned, his face
flushed with embarrassment. "It was a slip of the tongue. Neither Conrad
Lagrange nor I know anything about our neighbor."
She laughed ironically. "And you _could_ know so easily."
"I suppose so; but we have never cared to. We prefer to accept the music
as it comes to us--impersonally--for what it is--not for whoever makes
it." He spoke coldly, as though the subject was distasteful to him, under
the circumstances of the moment.
But the woman persisted. "Well, _I_ know who it is. Shall I tell you?"
"No. I do not care to know. I am not interested in the musician."
"Oh, but you might be, you know," she retorted.
"Please take the pose," returned Aaron King professionally.
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