tints which go to make up the modern New
York girl, seemed inexpressibly simple, almost
what plain arithmetic must appear to a man who
has mastered calculus.

Edith had opened one of those small red-
covered volumes of Chopin where the rich,
wondrous melodies lie peacefully folded up like
strange exotic flowers in an herbarium. She began
to play the fantasia impromtu, which ought
to be dashed off at a single "heat," whose
passionate impulse hurries it on breathlessly toward
its abrupt finale. But Edith toiled considerably
with her fingering, and blurred the keen
edges of each swift phrase by her indistinct ar-
ticulation. And still there was a sufficiently
ardent intention in her play to save it from being
a failure. She made a gesture of disgust
when she had finished, shut the book, and let
her hands drop crosswise in her lap.

"I only wanted to give you a proof of my incapacity,"
she said, turning her large luminous gaze
upon her instructor, "in order to make
you duly appreciate what you have undertaken.
Now, tell me truly and honestly,
are you not discouraged?"

"Not by any means," replied he, while the
rapture of her presence rippled through his