hen I am dead, hear nothing more of Sarah Bernhardt and the great French nation'--he could have added, and of Boris Lensky!"
"You will certainly not run into the foyer after him?" asks Nita, dryly.
"I am not thinking of it," Sophie assures her.
"Well, I only thought that you are one of his relatives," says Nita.
"Since his wife's death I have had no intercourse with him," Sophie confides to her friend. "He cannot bear me, thinks me narrow and prudish. As a man, I have never been in sympathy with him; he treated my dear cousin, his wife, much too badly for me to ever pardon him. But as an artist--as artist--he stands alone. I have heard other wonderful violinists, but it is only he that sends such hot and cold shudders over one's back at each stroke of his bow."
"Yes, he is a great artist," says Nita. Her voice sounds weary and hoarse, and the words fall slowly, syllable for syllable, from her lips, as if they were forced from her in a magnetic sleep
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