From the first there had always been between her and her listeners that electrical sympathy which only a certain order of genius seems able to create. “Rubbish!” he answered. “I’m really very sorry. “You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. ” He bent and kissed her hair and paused, and then forced his attention back to the map. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. What was it in her heart or mind or soul that went out to this man? Music—was that it? Was he powerless to stir her without the gift? But hadn't he fascinated her by his talk, gentle and winning? Ah, but that had been after he had played for her. " "Why how's this?" exclaimed Jonathan. The practice has been common for thousands of years. "I must tell you," she was saying.
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