``Seems to me the house is running wild with
photographs of that fiddler,'' he said.

For the first time in her life she was
self-conscious: ``I will wait for a more
opportune time to tell him,'' she thought.

In the scheme of Diotti's appearance
in New York there were to be two
more concerts. One was to be given
that evening. Mildred coaxed her
father to accompany her to hear the
violinist. Mr. Wallace was not fond
of music; ``it had been knocked out of
him on the farm up in Vermont, when
he was a boy,'' he would apologetically
explain, and besides he had the old
puritanical abhorrence of stage people--
putting them all in one class--as puppets
who danced for played or talked for an
idle and unthinking public.

So it was with the thought of a
wasted evening that he accompanied
Mildred to the concert.

The entertainment was a repetition
of the others Diotti had given, and at
its end, Mildred said to her father:
``Come, I want to congratulate Signor