mount horse and ride away from their troubles; whose swords leap from their sheaths at the breath of an insult; good, hearty, whole-souled fellows whose fortunes one delights to follow, but whom, alas, we seldom meet in the flesh."
"Perhaps it is as well. You might grow awfully tired of them."
"Perhaps. I sometimes think that, outside of the lasting friendships with the people in books and plays, the only satisfactory acquaintances are the chance ones."
"True," murmurs Louise, dreamily. She wonders whether the face behind the black mask matches the melody of the voice. A similar thought flits through Don Caesar's mind, as his eyes take in the graceful figure of the girl, clad all in black, a single ornament fastened at the long white throat.
"I, too, have few friends," says Louise. "But there is one friend who never fails me, through joy or sadness—my music."
"Ah, there is naught like it to drive away that enemy to life, dull care," put in the Don. "It is my one passion. And I have cultivated it only lately. But now I give myself up to it entirely, attending every concert of any repute, and bewailing fate a thousand times that I cannot play, or sing, or write."
"I think I can guess your favorite melody—one of them, at least."
"Can you, indeed?" asked Don Caesar, in interested surprise.
"The Sonata Pathetique."
"Ah, is it not beautiful? You have guessed correctly, but how?"
"You were whistling it softly as you stood near yonder pillar, a moment before the occasion for your presence here arose."
"Very probably. It is continually running through my head. Do you know, the melody has two meanings to me. When I am out of patience with the world and myself it seems tinged with an inexpressible melancholy. And when I am in good spirits the refrain becomes sing-
