I
went down to the parlor where I found Mr. Winthrop absorbed in his book.
I stood near waiting for him to look, but he remained unconscious of my
presence. I went to the fireside. On the mantle I noticed, for the first
time, a bust of the great master whose music had just been echoing so
mournfully in my ears. I took it in my hand and went nearer the light,
soon as absorbed in studying the indrawn melancholy face as was my
guardian over his book. When I looked at him his book was closed, and his
eyes regarding me attentively.
"Do you recognize the face?"
"Oh, yes. I wonder he looks like other men."
"Why should he look differently?"
"Because he was different. I wonder what his thoughts were when he was
writing that symphony?" I held the bust off reflectively.
"Did you enjoy your evening's entertainment?"
"Yes and no,--I wish you had been there, Mr. Winthrop. Please don't ask
me to describe it."
"I will get a description of how you received it then from Bovyer--he
could tell me better than you. He reads faces so well, I sometimes have a
fear he sees too far beneath our mask."
"I don't want to see him any more then," I said impetuously.
"Why not?"
"I do not want my soul to be scrutinized by strange eyes, any more than
you do, Mr. Winthrop."
"How do you know that I object?"
"Did you not say just now you had a fear he saw too deeply into us?"
"Possibly. I was speaking in a general way--meant humanity at large,
rather than my own individual self.
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