superstition, he bounded lightly and cheerfully over the last
steps.

Skipping the fine description of the brilliant company assembled
in the salon, the enumeration of the topics on which the
conversation ran, and the observation that Chopin, being
disinclined to talk, seated himself in a corner and watched the
beautiful ladies as they glided hither and thither, we will join
Karasowski again where, after the departure of the greater number
of the guests, Chopin goes to the piano and begins to improvise.

His auditors, whom he, absorbed in his own thoughts and
looking only at the keys, had entirely forgotten, listened
with breathless attention. When he had concluded his
improvisation, he raised his eyes, and noticed a plainly-
dressed lady who, leaning on the instrument, seemed to wish to
read his soul with her dark fiery eyes. [Although a severe
critic might object to the attitude of a lady leaning on a
piano as socially and pictorially awkward, he must admit that
from a literary point of view it is unquestionably more
effective than sitting or standing by the door.] Chopin felt
he was blushing under the fascinating glances of the lady
[Bravo! This is a master-touch]; she smiled [Exquisite!], and
when the artist was about to withdraw from the company behind
a group of camellias, he heard the peculiar rustling of a silk
dress, which exhaled a fragrance of violets [Camellias,
rustling silks, fragrance of violets! What a profusion of
beauty and sweetness!], and the same lady who had watched him
so inquiringly at the piano approached him accompanied by
Liszt. Speaking to him with a deep, sweet voice, she made some