"Paganini--Joachim--Sarasate--any one, it is good enough," was
the half-abstracted reply.
"It is good enough for you--almost, eh?"
Ingolby meant his question as a compliment, but an evil look shot into
the Romany's face, and the bow twitched in his hand. He was not Paganini
or Sarasate, but that was no reason why he should be insulted.
Ingolby's quick perception saw, however, what his words had done, and he
hastened to add: "I believe you can get more out of that fiddle than
Sarasate ever could, in your own sort of music anyhow. I've never heard
any one play half so well the kind of piece you played this afternoon.
I'm glad I didn't make a fool of myself buying the fiddle. I didn't, did
I? I gave five thousand dollars for it."
"It's worth anything to the man that loves it," was the Romany's
response. He was mollified by the praise he had received.
He raised the fiddle slowly to his chin, his eyes wandering round the
room, then projecting themselves into space, from which they only
returned to fix themselves on Ingolby with the veiled look which sees but
does not see--such a look as an oracle, or a death-god, or a soulless
monster of some between-world, half-Pagan god would wear.
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