As he put it the sound of the violin was back again.
"Listen! Don't trouble yourself, Rouse, to go upstairs and stop the concert, but stand a bit and listen. Let us hear of what metal the performer's made."
We listened the while Ernest held up his hand, as if commanding silence.
"Is that in the street?"
It did not sound as though it were. Ernest moved a little from the table.
"Come! let us go upstairs and surprise this fair musician. Possibly this is the case of a light which hitherto has shone unseen."
He went to the door. He opened it softly, so as to make no noise. With the handle in his hand he stood and listened.
"Hark! Let us hear what it is she, or he, is playing."
We all were silent, listening to the music, which came floating through the open door.
"Uncle!" Ernest turned to me. A startled look was on his face. "Surely—surely I know that air!"
It was strange to me. Quaint and sweet and mournful, like the refrain of an old-world song. I would I were a musician. I would write it here.
"It is a thing of Coursault's!"
Suddenly Ernest threw the door wide open. He went into the hall.
I went with him, amused at his eagerness. We stood at the foot of the stairs and listened.
"Do you mean that it is a composition of the friend of whom you have been telling me?"
