ew him! Stunned by his overstrung emotions, he could only bow his
head.

II

He received the welcome of a king. The two men he had seen earlier in
the day advanced ceremoniously and informed him that the honour of his
presence was something they had never hoped for; that--as news flies
swiftly in villages--they had heard he was at Alt-Aussee; they had
recognized the _great_ Marco Davos on the road. These statements were
delivered with exaggerated courtesy, though possibly sincere. The elder
of the pair was white-whiskered, very tall and spare, his expression a
sadly vague one. It was her father. The other an antique person, a
roly-poly fellow who chuckled and quavered, was her uncle. Davos sat in
a drawing-room containing a grand pianoforte, a few chairs, and couches.
The floor was stained, and when a cluster of lights was brought by the
uncle, he noticed that only Chopin portraits hung on the walls. He
apologized for his intrusion--the music had lured him from the highroad.

"We are very musical," said the father.

"I should say so," reiterated his brother-in-law.

"Musical!" echoed Davos. "Do you call it by such an everyday phrase? I
heard the playing of a marvellous poet a moment ago." The two men looked
shyly at each other. She entered. He was formally presented.

"Monsieur Davos, this is Constantia Grabowska, my daughter. My name is
Joseph Grabowski; my late wife's brother, Monsieur Pelletier." Davos
was puzzled by the name, Constantia Grabowska! She sat before him,
dressed in black silk with crinoline; two dainty curls hung over her
ears; her profile, her colouring, were slightly Oriental, and in her
nebulous gray eyes with their greenish light there was eternal youth.
Constantia! Polish. And how she played Chopin--ah! it came to him before
he had finished his apologies.

"You are named after Chopin's first love," he ejaculated. "Pardon the
liberty." She answered him in her grave, measured contralto.

"Constantia Gladowska was my grandmother." The playing, the portraits,
were now explained. A lover of the Polish composer, Davos knew every
incident of his biography.

"I am the son of that Joseph Grabowski, the Warsaw merchant who married
the soprano singer, Constantia Gladowska, in 1832," said the father,
smilingly. "My father became blind."

"Chopin's _Ideal_!" exclaimed Marco. He was under the spell of the
girl's beauty and music. He almost stared at her, for the knowledge that
she was a great artis